


out from the shadows

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin AU, Dark, F/F, Moral Ambiguity, Smut, assassin!thirteen, don't quite know where this is going, killing eve-esque, kinda don't want to, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 03:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20753498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: She’s lost to the skies above when a nearby shout makes her ears burn. Fixing her cap into place, she ventures towards the source, brows pinched, heart a steady drum beneath the protection of multiple layers.tw: blood, violence





	1. honey don't feed it (it will come back)

Sheffield city centre is noiseless at four am, minus the occasional stumbling group of students or the shuffling of those without homes to return to. 

Some are quiet, reserved and thoughtful in their intoxication, while others are angry, loud, and stubborn to the warning chides of their friends when they spot fluorescent yellow on approach. 

“Make sure you all get home safe, guys. Keep an eye on each other, okay?” PC Yasmin Khan instructs in an authoritative tone, but her eyes are friendly and warm with compassion when she regards a gathering of young female students, clinging to each other for warmth when alcohol disperses with the arrival of an early morning breeze. 

When the streets calm once more, Yaz retires to her police vehicle. She hops onto the hood to watch the sun rise into pinky-blue hues between the bank and the undertakers adjacent. 

She’s lost to the skies above when a nearby shout makes her ears burn. Fixing her cap into place, she ventures towards the source, brows pinched, heart a steady drum beneath the protection of multiple layers. 

It sounds as though it might’ve resounded from behind her usual coffee shop, but the shout is pained in its shock, so she picks up her pace. Heavy boots give her presence away before her voice has a chance. 

In the minimal light that sunrise offers, she doesn’t make out the scene before her until it’s too late. Two figures jostle in the shadows cast by buildings either side of a narrow alley, one of which is dressed in all black, a dark beanie keeping blonde locks tucked away. The other is a middle-aged businessman, his suit crisp, his hair well-groomed, but his mouth set in a firm grimace. 

“Oi! What’s going on here?” Yaz calls on approach, startling the slimmer, more agile form into freezing on the spot. 

Wide, bright green eyes shoot a stunned glance in her direction before the perpetrator’s arm swings back, then drives forward before Yaz can even attempt to stop her. 

Crimson seeps from the slice her force languishes upon the man’s form, and by the time Yaz can react; can peel her hands away from her mouth where her cry has been captured; can surge forth, the assailant has vanished. 

There’s a clean cut along the victim’s neck and dread settles, unwelcome and unwavering, in the pit of Yaz’s stomach when she realises precisely what she’d just witnessed. 

“No, no, no, _ no _.”

Tearing a section from the man’s shirt and applying firm pressure to the wound, Yaz calls, cries and shouts for backup through the device attached to her vest. 

“Hey, _ hey _, breathe for me, nice and steady, okay, sir?” Yaz captures his attention when the man writhes, gasping for air he can’t seem to find. “Inhale on four, exhale on eight,” she commands, authority giving way to desperate pleas. “Come on, stay with me. You’re fine, you’re okay.”

“Victim in need of urgent assistance. Brownchurch Street. Please come quick, ” Yaz repeats the words more times than she can count, each time weaker than the last. 

Blood pools around her hands and life seeps slowly, then all at once from the pale man’s eyes. 

The rouge liquid sinks into her dark trousers while she waits, dazed, nauseous, the victim’s head cradled in her arms. Her gaze scans in the environment, nervously looking for any signs of the perpetrator in the vicinity. 

Yaz is ashamed to admit she’s frankly a little scared to stay there any longer, alone and out of sight, vulnerable and trembling. Her thoughts go into overdrive and she has to hold back a retch. 

She'd let him die. She’d just _stood there. _She’d done nothing. Perhaps she’s not as cut out for this as she first thought — perhaps if she’d actually reacted quicker, she wouldn’t be covered in another person's blood, watching them slip away between her palms as the substance cooled and became sticky. 

When the paramedics finally turn up, drawing the man’s body from her hold and setting him on a stretcher, she keels over, emptying the contents of her stomach onto cold, damp cobblestones. 

“Yaz? Yaz, are you alright?” Her colleague’s hushed voice battles through the mist clouding her mind, but only just. Yaz peels herself from the ground, glancing up in absolute hopelessness. 

“No,” she murmurs, gritting her teeth. Her stomach whirls again, but Ryan rubs her back this time, quiet and attentive and mindful of any evidence he may disturb. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he responds in gentle reassurance, but when Yaz realises, with a shudder, that she’d said the same words to the deceased victim a few minutes earlier, she can’t help the heave which follows. 

“We’re going to have to keep your uniform as evidence, ma’am, so if you could step into the changing room for us and bag it up, then you can be on your way,” Chief Inspector Noble informs carefully, taking in Yaz’s blood-splattered form with a sense of sorrow the parole officer hasn’t witnessed before. She’s back at HQ now, and if she receives one more pitiful gaze she thinks she might scream.

It was her fault. 

Yaz nods, silent. She slips through the door and curls trembling hands into her jacket, pushing it from her shoulders with a short inhale. Her sleeves are soaked through, but not by the steady rain now falling outside. 

With each item bagged up, the heavy sensation of thick uniform transitions to Yaz’s limbs, weighing her down with the responsibility of someone else’s life — someone she’d failed. 

It was her fault. 

She changes in silence, then disappears into the toilet to scrub her hands and arms free from crimson until they’re raw. 

“So,” her chief asks, cupping her chin between her palms while she leans on her elbows. “What did the perpetrator look like?”

Yaz swallows, taking a sip of water when she finds her throat dry. “She was —” _ beautiful, ethereal, almost make-believe, _she wants to say. She shakes her head, gathering her thoughts. “ — blonde,” she finishes, gnawing at the inside of her cheek to keep her inner monologue at bay. 

The questioning and paperwork process is enough for a headache to blossom behind Yaz’s eyes by the time she’s allowed to leave. Ryan volunteers to drive her home, but she’s craving the fresh air a walk offers after spending the day inside clammy interview rooms and offices. 

“You better text me as soon as you’re home, okay?” her colleague and work partner implores at the entrance to the station, reaching out to rub a hand over her shoulder.

When she looks up from the nails she’s bitten raw and red throughout the day, fixing Ryan with a grateful look, all she really craves is a hug. 

“C’mere,” Ryan murmurs, gently drawing his best friend into a hug. They’re in sync — sometimes Yaz thinks she’s closer to him than her own sister. The hug grounds her just enough to bring warmth and feeling back to her bones. She feels a little better, a little less weighed down, as though she’s passed on the baton in a relay race. 

“Thanks, Ry,” Yaz sighs as she pulls back, stepping out into cool, open air. It’s dark out, but she has the benefit of quick strides and a flat nearby. “Thanks for everything, today. You helped more than you know.” 

“Nah, man. You’d do the same for me.” He slips his hands into his pockets, rocking on his toes while Yaz takes a few more steps in the opposite direction. “Remember the text!”

“Course, see you in a couple days!” Yaz calls back over her shoulder when she turns, footfalls quiet compared to the cars driving along the main road. They’ve persuaded her to take a few days to rest and repair, despite her in-built stubborn streak. 

There’s a ten-minute walk between the police station and her home, a newsagent, an old, abandoned blockbuster and a band of takeaway shops lining her side of the road as she ambles in the direction of her flat. 

Each business is open and crowded as usual for a Saturday evening, providing her with enough safety in numbers to remain blissfully unaware of the presence shadowing her movements from shopfront to street corner. 

She crosses the road between two parked cars and, in her dazed state, angers a motorist who has to skid to a stop to narrowly avoid her. 

“_ Arsehole!” _She hears him shout, and on any other day, she’d be on his back. Tonight, though, the blame is on her. 

It was her fault.

When she rounds onto her street, Yaz pauses to check her phone when it chimes with a text message. She lingers at the street sign, forgoing walking and texting after witnessing a drunken student break his nose in the same process. He’d walked into the side of a taxi while in the process of ringing one, bless him. 

_ Be careful where you’re walking, PC Khan. _

An unpleasant shiver rolls down her spine when she identifies the number as unknown, and, after a quick survey of her surroundings, she continues on at a quicker pace. 

Her hands are trembling when she twists her key in the lock not five minutes later, keyrings jingling when she finally slips through and locks it after her. 

As soon as she’s inside, she fires off a text to Ryan to let him know she’s home, then brings up the last message again. 

_ I’m sorry, who is this? _

She’s not usually so easy to frighten, but after a day like this, who could blame her if a creepy message sets her on edge for the rest of the evening? 

By the time she lays in bed that night, curled up beneath sheets she suddenly finds too enclosing, walls she thinks might be closing in on her, millimetre by millimetre, there’s only one thought on her mind. 

Blood pools around the foot of her bed, spreading upwards like wildfires in midday rays. She pulls back, but the liquid is too heavy for her to lift the sheets away. Torturously slowly, it creeps up her torso and falls around her head, encapsulating her form until it's all she can see, taste, feel, _ hear. _ It’s a gentle sloshing, but its movements are far from it. Within seconds, she’s buried under its weight, choking and writhing for much-needed oxygen, routing around for an escape. When she looks up, taking her final breath, the man — George, a businessman from Leeds with three children, who’d died under _ her _watch this morning, — is leaning over her with only words of resentment. 

_ You could’ve done more. You should’ve done more. You have blood on your hands. _

A clatter from her kitchen makes Yaz jerk awake with a gasp, hands scrabbling to touch the pads of her fingers to her cheeks and feel for crimson moisture there. Minus a sheen of sweat, she finds nothing, so she blinks out of her vivid nightmare and sits up, reaching for a glass of water on her nightstand. 

She forgets what woke her up in the first place until another sound rattles in through her closed bedroom door. It sounds like footsteps, then the swill of liquid in a bottle. 

There’s a letter-opener in her hand when she reaches for her door handle, holding her breath when slowly, silently, she edges it open. 

She pokes her head around the doorframe and toes through the corridor connecting all the rooms together, edging stealthily towards the source of the noise. 

There's someone in her kitchen.

The distinct, albeit out of tune humming of _ Every Breath You Take _echoes through to the hallway when Yaz rounds the corner. She hops through the doorway and raises her unconventional choice of weapon. “PC Khan, Hallamshire Police!”

The sight she’s met with is_ not _ what she expected. A mess of blonde hair turns on the spot in a pristine black suit which, frankly, hugs all the right places. There’s a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and two wine glasses in her other hand. 

It takes a beat for Yaz to realise just who the mystery woman is, glistening hazel-green eyes giving her away immediately. The letter-opener clatters to the ground and Yaz steps back until her fluffy-socked heels touch the skirting board. 

In a broad northern accent and with a smug, shit-eating grin, the woman drawls, “Is that how you introduce yourself to _ everyone _, babe?”


	2. come out and play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is really short im sorry!!
> 
> (thank u for the help gee ur a star!!!)
> 
> tw: violence !!!

The term of endearment catches her off-guard at first, but Yaz is quick to right herself. “Who are you? What are you doing in my flat?” 

“I think I’ll give you a two out of ten for hospitality, thirteen out of ten for wine — how did you know this was my favourite?” Ignoring her questions entirely, the blonde helps herself to a glass full of white wine. “Want some, babe?”

“I don’t drink,” Yaz whispers, voice wavering when she catches a flash of sharp silver from the other woman’s back pocket. 

“More for me, then,” the intruder beams, settling the bottle down on the worktop and taking a sip. She breathes a sigh. “Why have expensive wine if you don’t drink?” 

“It’s — it’s for guests,” Yaz murmurs, brows furrowing — the woman she’d seen blatantly commit murder this morning is now standing in her kitchen discussing wine. She pinches herself, eyeing up the nearest weapon. Her knife rack has been emptied, and the blonde stands almost purposefully in front of her cutlery drawer. Her hand curls securely around the mop behind her. 

“Cleaning? At this time of night?” the demurely-dressed woman quips, amused, green hues dancing with humour and… — pity? She swirls the clear liquid between long, slender fingers before taking another sip. "I'm sure my boss can deal with the moping up once I'm done here, don't worry. He's very thorough."

Yaz’s grip only tightens, settling the cleaning utensil at her side. The blonde notes the way her hands tremble with a muted scoff.

“Oh! Wait — you’re hoping to use it as a weapon, aren’t you?” She adds in faux-surprise, twisting her lips into a slow smirk when Yaz is sufficiently patronised. “Go on. Give it your best shot. Never been up against a mop before.” She sets her glass down, taking slow, prowling steps across the kitchen like a feline stalking its prey. 

“Just leave, please,” Yaz murmurs, backing up with every step the blonde takes closer until the wall is at her back and wine-infused breaths are close enough to melt against the very tip of her nose. The perpetrator is taller, an easy inch leaving her to loom over her smugly. She loses all sense of authority under eyes which look as though they’ve lived through wars, words coming out more like begs. “Please, I won’t tell anyone you’ve been here. I won’t tell anyone anything else about today.”

“Oh, honey,” the other woman starts, slipping a hand behind her to curl around the wooden handle of Yaz’s kitchen knife. The blade glints like a star in the night seconds before it presses ever so lightly against Yaz’s abdomen through her thin vest. “How am I meant to believe you? I can’t allow witnesses, sorry. Company policy.”

Yaz’s gasp is loud and shocked, and she daren’t glance down. With every panicked breath, the tip of the blade shifts, prodding here, easing there, but ever-present. 

She doesn’t reckon she’s that sorry at all if her satisfied smirk is anything to go by. 

The blonde’s pupils are blown when Yaz next meets her piercing gaze, fingers twitching in rhythm with gradually calming breaths. “But I won’t — I won’t say anything else, I promise. Come on, surely we can come up with — _ ah _— a deal or something?” Yaz whimpers when the blade nips her skin through the fabric, which is now graced with a horizontal slit. A single drop of crimson sinks onto the white fabric, spreading through ribbed cotton like wildfires in the summer heat. 

“I don’t do deals,” the blonde purrs, eyeing the red stain just below where the blade has paused. “It is a shame, though. You’re so gorgeous I almost feel guilty.”

“Who _ are _you? Who’s making you do this?” Yaz pleads, flinching when the other woman curiously brushes her fingertips over the small wound gracing dark skin, applying pressure directly to the source. When she brings her hand back up, fresh blood coats the pad of her index finger. Yaz takes the opportunity to curl a hand around its knife-wielding counterpart, twisting her wrist uncomfortably and ducking under her arm. In a fluid motion, she has her forearm hooked under the other woman’s chin, tipping her head back against Yaz’s shoulder. 

She knocks the kitchen utensil from her grasp at the same time pearly whites latch onto her wrist, biting down until she has no choice but to yelp and draw her arm reflexively to her chest. 

“You really shouldn’t have done that, Yasmin Khan,” the blonde smirks, menacing, almost feral, but also a little surprised. She thought she’d be too frightened to fight back. 

Her name on the blonde’s lips makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and her movements falter. The other woman watches on, following every movement Yaz makes as if ready to pounce once more. “How do you know my name? Who do you work for?”

Questions falling on deaf ears, Yaz makes a bolt for the door. Her hand has just enough time to curl around the handle before nimble arms curl around her waist, dragging her back into the room and tossing her down against solid kitchen tiles like heels falling to the floor after a night of intoxicating dance moves. She manages to swipe her fist out, catching the other woman’s prominent cheekbone with her signet ring. 

As a result, Yaz’s other hand hits the black and white tiles first, giving way beneath her with the strength of her shove. She thinks she might’ve heard a crack; the pain which follows confirms her fears. Her head collides with the ceramic next, but with only enough force to bruise. Still, stars swim behind her widened pupils.

“For someone who should be proclaiming their dying wishes, you really do ask a lot of questions,” the other woman scoffs, looming over Yaz’s dizzied form. She nudges her knee with the toes of her boots while Yaz gathers her whits about her, like a feline prodding at its mutilated victim. “Kudos for determination, babe.”

“Do not —” Yaz starts, reaching for the blonde’s foot to tackle her to the floor beside her. When all she gets in return is a heel to the face, which, again, is barely enough to split her bottom lip, Yaz glances up, her grimace bloody. “ — call me babe.”

The blonde rolls her eyes, crouching, toned thighs hugged by expensive black slacks. She reaches out for the arm tucked against her chest, bitten, broken, and a sly smirk graces her lips. “This hurt?” 

When Yaz shakes her head, stubborn, proud, unwilling to wilt under the other woman’s gaze, the blonde squeezes. 

Yaz’s cry is muffled behind grimacing lips, eyes shut, creases appearing in the corners. 

Pupils dilated, the blonde hooks a leg over Yaz’s hip and straddles her waist to keep her from wriggling away. Her hold increases torturously slowly, leaving the younger woman to claw and scrabble at her hold with her free hand. 

“Please, please… God, please stop,” Yaz whimpers, her eyes brimming with tears by the time they open again. Glossy, deep brown and large, her attacker finds them more alluring than she’d like. 

Her grip eases, then falls away completely, moving to settle around Yaz’s neck instead. She’s smiling as she applies gentle pressure as if preparing her for what’s to come. 

“There’s no — there’s no need for this. Please…” Yaz chokes out, tears falling freely now. There’s desperation in her tone now because she knows full-well what the blonde is capable of. She prays silently to herself, gaze catching on the smear of blood coating the arch of the still unknown woman’s cheekbone. “You’re bleeding.”

“And you’re broken. Seems I'm winning, huh?” the blonde murmurs, but she’s not as confident now. Beneath her lies a perfectly innocent civilian who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. When she looks into her eyes, all she sees is the opportunities she’ll miss out on if she just squeezes a little harder, a little quicker. But she can’t. 

Bad guys are her forte, not gorgeous women with kind eyes and only good intentions in a sea of negativity. 

Her grip eases. 

Yaz reaches up, ghosting the pads of her fingers against the smattering of blood on her cheek. “You know what they say about spiders? They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

At the contact, the smartly-dressed woman freezes entirely. She swallows visibly, eyeing the hand pressed against her cheek as though she’s never been touched so tenderly in all her life. The sensation seeps through her skin and into her very core, igniting something within her which, until now, has been locked away and purposefully forgotten. There are too many emotions swirling in her gut, clouding her vision, her plan, her plan B. She thinks she might be sick. 

Sharply, the blonde hauls herself up to her feet, leaving Yaz’s limp, confused, and shaken form against the kitchen tiles. 

As she turns for the front door, hanging her head low, suddenly a lot smaller and not intimidating in the slightest, Yaz sits up gingerly. “Ma’am?”

“Get yourself to the hospital. Do _ not _ mention this to anyone if you want to save your arse from being chopped into pieces and dumped into a dustbin in the city centre,” the blonde whispers harshly into the low light, unlocking the door and stepping through with one last, regretful glance. 

Yaz listens to her footsteps echo down the corridor and dissipate from existence, then slumps into the cool floor with a groan. How is she going to explain her injuries to her boss in the morning?

Her arm freshly-set in a white cast, Yaz turns up to Hallamshire Police headquarters at nine am the following morning. With a lopsided smile, she regards chief inspector Noble. “I tripped over my cat.” 

She’s granted a week off work and a sympathetic talk from her boss over the irritating nature of felines. 

When she leaves the building, there’s a tap on her shoulder. It’s Ryan Sinclair, her work partner. “Mate, you don’t even _ own _ a cat. What are you hiding?"


	3. empty vessel, crooked teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!!

_ Cold, piercing green slices through otherwise contented slumber, close enough for Yaz to familiarise herself with the musky scent of brand new clothes and expensive perfume. _

_ “Yasmin Khan,” the demure voice purrs into the shell of her ear, one hand pressed against her waist to keep her pinned against the cold stone wall of a darkened alleyway. The other raises slowly, out of sight. _

_ “What do you _ ** _want_**_?” Yaz gasps, restrained by an invisible force she attempts meekly to struggle free from. _

_ All at once, there’s a silver blade pressed against her throat and her breath catches, wavers, and transitions into a high-pitched gasp. _

_ Yasmin Khan is scared. _

_ “You,” the sultry blonde all but sighs, the sound a heady mixture of satisfaction and… something else entirely. _

_ Cool metal still pressed to the curve of her neck, a pair of soft, cool lips mould against receptive flesh in a kiss which contrasts entirely with her hardened demeanour. _

_ “Your blood on my hands, your life within my grasp,” her lips move, ghosting against her rapid pulse. Yaz shivers for an entirely different reason altogether. “Your lips on mine, your taste on my tongue.” _

_ She’s all around her at once, overwhelming in the best possible way. _

Yaz bolts awake at the sudden, vivid realisation, burying her head in her hands when thoughts of slender digits and soft lips pressed against all sorts of places sends her brain into a spiral. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening.”

It’s been four weeks since the incident but she still can’t sleep through the night, the fear of glinting, silver metal and sharp, smirking lips denying her any inkling of rest. 

So, when the prospect of a night shift came up, Yaz jumped at the opportunity. She straightens up, checking the surroundings from the driver’s window of her police vehicle before she lifts the handle and nudges the door open, taking a step into damp late-night air, rain falling in a slow drizzle overhead. 

Yaz hadn’t disclosed her encounter with the killer to anyone. 

For reasons unbeknownst to her, she finds herself wanting to get to know more about the dangerous blonde and her questionable intentions before she snaps a pair of handcuffs around her wrists and sends her off to jail for her remaining years. 

Yaz picks and pulls and plucks at the loose threads fraying from her now bandaged hand, the cold catching and enveloping the healing bones of her wrist and stiffening each digit in turn. She’d been told to rest easy, but with the fracture’s minuscule nature and her own stubbornness, it’s unsurprising that PC Khan is back out on patrol. 

The streets are quiet, a welcome solace for those walking to clear their head of the day’s events or simply the alcohol lingering in their system. 

A lone fox wanders between brimming dustbins, the dirty red of its coat matching the rusted drains swallowing slow streams of rainfall. 

The familiar route she walks between pubs and banks and high street stores reminds her of a fateful night almost a whole month ago, and the echo of a shout rings in her ears. 

She presumes she’s imagining it. 

There’s a shuffling behind her, then a soft, high voice. “Miss?”

When Yaz turns, she meets the fearful gaze of a young teenage boy, curled up and shivering in a scruffy sleeping bag beneath the shadow of a shop’s foyer. He sneezes, curling a hand around his button nose. Bright orange curls tumble over his forehead with the action. 

Her heart constricts, then sinks beneath her ribs. 

“Do you have a tissue?” the youngster asks, voice raspy with sleep in sleepless streets. 

“Oh — God, I'm so sorry, I don’t,” Yaz apologises gently, crouching to the boy’s level to subtly asses his pupils and features from afar. They’re not dilated as she had expected, so it’s unlikely that drugs infiltrate his system like the half-conscious, pin-cushioned adults strewed about the city also without homes to return to. 

“That’s okay. Thank you for stopping, anyway,” the teen counters, dismissing her apology with a kind smile and a shrug of his trembling shoulders. He sneezes once more.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Yaz implores softly, leaning an elbow on her thigh and dropping her knee to the cool, damp cobblestones. Moisture seeps through her trousers, sending a cool shiver down her spine. She can’t imagine how cold the boy must be. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“Tom,” he replies shyly, warily, blinking green eyes at her through the low golden light of streetlamps above. “What’s yours?”

Yaz tilts her head, regarding the youngster on the verge of adulthood with a warm smile — she can only hope it helps with the cold plaguing his bones. “I’m Yasmin, but my friends call me Yaz. There’s a shelter around the corner, Tom. I can see if they’ll keep you up for the night, if you like?”

“I… can’t afford it,” he counters, bushy brows furrowing. His skinny form trembles with another violent shiver. “It’s alright, I’ll be okay.”

“None of that, buddy. C’mon, I can’t have you freezing out here,” Yaz implores, pulling herself back up to stand and shrugging off her luminescent jacket. When he moves to straighten up, she slips the thermal garment over his shoulders. He wobbles in his acceptance of the extra weight on weak bones. “Think you can manage a five-minute walk?” 

“Think so,” he murmurs, shivers dimming, but ever-present. Then, quietly, “thank you.” 

“It’s my job, Tom.”

The rain eases to an occasional patter. The sun hints at its return through lighter blue hues, which curl along the edges of buildings and grant streetlights less pressure for the coming day. 

* * *

Twenty minutes and a retrieved coat later, Yaz continues her patrol from where she left off, heavy boots echoing her path along the main street in a slow loop back towards her car. 

She turns a corner at a shabby-looking locksmith and ducks through alleyways and side-streets she knows like the back of her hand. She curses quietly when her bandage catches and snags on a moss-coated railing. 

The sound bounces between red-brick walls, capturing the attention of a half-conscious mind. 

“My mum’s going to kill me,” Yaz huffs to herself, peeling the bandage back around her hand and tucking the loosened material between another layer for now. In the distance, she can hear her mother’s chiding tone. 

Or — wait, that’s not just in her head. 

Someone just whispered her na— 

“_ Yaz _,” the voice comes again, strained, raspy, like screaming during a nightmare — there’s no sound, just a pained wheeze. 

“Hello? Is someone there?” Yaz responds, turning on the spot in an effort to glance in all directions at once. When her name is repeated, Yaz frowns in frustration. “Where are you?”

An old, weathered plant pot tumbles over to her left and dirty blonde locks appear from its side, hidden from view behind a stack of old crates. “Right here, ma’am.”

Yaz’s heart shifts to her throat and she swallows thickly when she realises just who she’s dealing with, but when she approaches, cautious, tentative, to find the shell of a flirtatious, intimidating killer coated in bruises and cuts, she gasps. The blonde’s left eye is purple and swollen, her temple garnished with a deep gash which paints her white blouse and skinny green tie crimson. Her nose is bleeding and her lip has split. 

She’s slumped against the wall and drooling blood when Yaz crouches before her, shock twisting her frown into a grimace. “What happened?”

“_ You _ happened. Or, precisely, the fact that you’re still _ alive _ is what happened,” the woman bites back. 

Spoken through a bloodied frown and a shallow groan of pain, Yaz finds her words particularly jarring. She leans back on her haunches, brows pinching in question. “Your boss did this?” 

“No shit, Sherlock,” the woman snaps, but a snake without venom can only hurt so much before pity replaces fear. 

Yaz isn’t scared of her.

“You know, I could just — I could have you arrested. Right now.” Yaz jingles the metal cuffs attached to her belt, scrutinising the blonde for all she’s worth. 

“You wouldn’t.” Despite her smirk, she doesn’t sound so sure. When a wave of pain from her ribs leaves her breathless, the blonde keels over to spit a stream of blood into the cracks between paving slabs. She coughs, the action only increasing the dull throb settled just below her most vital organ. 

“You should get yourself checked out at the hospital.” Yaz sinks down to her level, assessing the wounds to her perfect features but refusing to reach out just yet. Just the sight of her is enough to recall her earlier dream. 

When the blonde glances up, her pupils are glossy, face ashen. “And risk people knowing I was beaten up by my own boss for not following simple orders?” she questions incredulously, taking a few moments to exhale and inhale steadily through a cloud of aches and the sting of a wound pulled taught. “Should’ve known you were dumb. All the pretty ones are.” 

Yaz scoffs. “Alright, fine. Good luck getting home in that state, _ babe,” _ Yaz remarks, standing tall, taking one, two… three heavy steps backwards before a quiet command stops her. 

“Wait,” the older woman rasps, wiping the back of her hand against her nose and smearing crimson carelessly over prominent cheekbones. “God, do you have to look so _ smug _? I just — okay, maybe I could do with some help.”

“I can’t believe I'm doing this,” Yaz whispers into cool air, crouching slightly to reach for the blonde’s hand. “You reckon we could make a deal?” 

“Depends on what kind of deal you’re thinking of, honey,” the assassin drawls, a mischievous glint in cold hazel eyes. “It’s not the first time someone has asked for a special arrangement. Probably won’t be the last.”

How is it that, even with a split lip and features smattered with purple, the blonde still screams sex appeal? 

Perhaps Yaz ought to pay attention to her needs more regularly if the effect the woman has on her is anything to go by. 

“If I get you cleaned up myself, you have to tell me why you killed that man,” Yaz proposes, hesitating for a moment to receive a curt, reluctant nod before she slings the blonde’s arm over her shoulder and draws her to her feet. 

Her first few steps are stumbled, like a fawn on ice. She clutches at her side with her free hand, wincing with each uncomfortable twist of her bruised and battered ribs, old injuries seeking vengeance on her usually agile form. 

Yaz is tentative in her assistance, a hand braced against her shoulder blade to aid her movements. They walk slowly, turning onto the main street. She’s grateful for the early hours in its providence of empty pavements and only the occasional vehicle.

“You can be rough with me, y’know, babe,” the woman flirts openly, although the smirk she bears only expresses the discomfort she’s in. There’s a glint in her eyes, though, something heady, alluring, like the temptation of flickering flames to the curious hands of youngsters unburdened and uninformed of its heat, its unpredictability, its destruction. 

Yaz’s eyes roll beneath the shadow of her cap, and she moves to retract her arm and all remaining support to retain some kind of control over the situation. “I don’t _ have _ to help, you know. And my name is _ Yasmin, _please use it.”

“But here you are, helping,” the blonde retorts, righting herself when Yaz’s aid disappears suddenly, only to return a second later. “And your friends call you Yaz.”

Deciding to ignore the voice in the back of her head screaming _ how could she know that? _ Yaz nods, meeting her gaze in faux-confidence. “My _ friends _ do, yeah.” 

The woman leant heavily against her side sighs against her collar. “I’m hurt,” she breathes, the cool tip of her nose brushing against the slither of dark skin above her collar and encouraging an involuntary shiver from Yaz. “Guess I'd better work on winning you over, then, shouldn’t I, babe?” 

With enough force to make her gasp, Yaz sends her elbow into the woman’s side. 

She’s quick to correct herself, albeit weakly. “I meant _ Yasmin.” _

“For a killer, you really don’t know when to bite your tongue,” Yaz comments, catching the reflection of the sunrise in the clouded window of the newsagent opposite. She’s wary of walking too fast, conscious of the shudders the blonde gives with every other step. 

“I’m not just any old murderer,” the woman bites back, taking on a defensive tone. She tenses beneath her hands, as if offended at the accusation. 

“You literally kill people,” she counters, turning her head to fix the blonde with both a confused and disapproving glare.

For a second, she lifts her head from her shoulder, meeting her gaze in intense seriousness. “Only the ones who deserve it, and even then, only at the right price.” 

“You have no right to play God like that,” Yaz states matter-of-factly, and for once, she doesn’t earn a snarky comment in response. 

The blonde merely settles her head back against her shoulder and half-limps, half-struts along at her side. 

The police car is in sight and Yaz’s keys are tucked into her bandaged hand when the blonde next chooses to communicate. Her words are muffled against Yaz’s shoulder, where she’s taken residence like a feline seeking warmth. 

“Jemma,” the woman mumbles, her now warmed nose pressed snugly against the sensitive curve of Yaz’s neck. 

“Hm?” Yaz quips, confusion pinching her brows into jagged lines. 

“My name — it’s Jemma, if you’re interested,” she whispers as though it’s information she’s only willing to reveal once. Blink, and she’ll miss it. 

“Thanks for letting me know, Jemma,” Yaz praises, taken aback. She presses the button to unlock the doors to her car, ensuring Jemma can stand properly before she reaches for the handle on the passenger’s side door and with surprising gentleness, helps her into the seat. 

When she slips into the driver’s seat, Jemma has already curled in on herself, tie loosened, the first few buttons of her blouse unplucked and hanging loosely over the prominent curve of her collarbones. 

Cursing her wandering eyes, Yaz clears her throat and sinks into her seat. “You’re _ sure _ I can’t take you to A & E?” 

“Yasmin, _ no. _I never go anywhere that’s just initials,” Jemma frowns, and despite the ridiculousness of her words, she’s serious. 

Yaz taps out a rhythm against the steering wheel while she thinks of another alternative which won’t land her in trouble, but, at this point — with a convicted killer in her presence for the second time this month, she really can’t avoid the inevitable. “My place it is, then.”

“It’s a date,” Jemma hums, poking around in the glove compartment curiously. There’s pepper spray, a mini first aid kit and a car manual. She’s suitably unimpressed. 

“It’s not —” Yaz starts, but gives up when she eyes the teasing pull at the corners of Jemma’s lips. “God, you’re insufferable.” She balances the clutch, then pulls away from the pavement and onto the empty streets. 

“It’s just Jemma, but thanks,” she quips, drawing an antiseptic wipe from the first aid kit to dab against the cut on her lip and clear away the blood from her nose. “Never been called insufferable before,” she continues, drawing down the passenger-side compartment and taking in her features through the mirror. “_ Insatiable _, yeah, but not insufferable.”

Heaving a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Yaz drives the small distance back to her cosy flat with only the distraction of Jemma’s watchful eye. 

“I’m glad I don’t have to climb up there this time,” Jemma comments when they arrive, glancing up at the ten-storey complex from her place against Yaz’s side. “You ruined my best suit that night, and it wasn’t even in the way I’d have liked.”

“You’re sure you’re not a horny teenage boy in disguise?” Yaz queries, locking up her car and leading them along the paving towards the main entrance. 

“Oh, this is me being _ tame, _Yasmin Khan,” she purrs, sultry and coy and millimetres from Yaz’s ear. 

It really shouldn’t affect her so, but there’s no point fighting against the current in the shadow of a tsunami. 

There’s a growing pile of bloodied tissue paper and cotton wool on the countertop of Yaz’s kitchen ten minutes later. While Jemma forms them into a small pyramid, Yaz dabs around the cuts and grazes painting pinkish skin a darker hue. “I’m going to have to disinfect these deeper cuts,” Yaz comments in the quiet of a sunrise unwitnessed. 

“Should be fine,” Jemma shrugs, moving to slip from the stool she’s occupied, fidgetingly, for the last five minutes. A firm hand stops her, gripping her bicep over the smooth, expensive material of her shirt. It’s a shame she had to bleed all over it. 

“No, you’re staying here.” Her words aren’t a suggestion, they’re a command. Jemma meets her gaze, noting the mix of emotions in deep brown pools. “Just — keep still, okay? I haven’t done anything like this since my training.” 

“You fill me with confidence.” Jemma stays in place, though, accepting the flannel Yaz hands her with a look of confusion. “What’s this for?”

“You might want to bite down on it,” Yaz counters with a grimace, twisting the top off a bottle of antiseptic liquid and reaching out to tip Jemma’s chin up slightly. 

Her touch scorches the skin there, causing the blonde to flinch involuntarily. She averts her gaze when Yaz quickly draws her hand back, as though overstepping a mark Jemma has crossed countless times in the opposite direction. “I’ll be fine, promise. I’m peachy.” But when she flutters her lashes, confident, sultry, her eye throbs. She returns a bag of frozen peas to the swollen skin there, heaving a sigh not dissimilar to that of a bored teenager during a long car ride. 

“Suit yourself,” Yaz whispers more to herself than the other woman. Idly, she wonders how she’s got herself into this situation; in her own home, treating the wounds of a murderer, a killer, everything she should detest and avoid at all costs. Silently motioning for the blonde to tilt her head a little more, she starts to dab soaked cotton wool directly against the wound gracing her temple. Yaz presses far harder than she needs, she knows that, and something in her breaks at the lack of reaction she receives in response. 

"_God_," Yaz sighs in frustration. She cups her jaw this time, despite Jemma’s prior reactions, and waits impatiently until she's looking her in the eye. A flicker of curiosity catches and swells in her pupils, which Jemma notices are laced with fatigue. "Can't you feel _ anything?" _

There’s a beat, a breath, an exasperated sigh, before a small rush of air against her cheek signals to the hand now settling against her neck. A sense of dread fills her at the indecipherable look in Jemma’s eyes. 

But then, to her shock, instead of pain or a test of strength those slender hands can and have wielded, they simply draw her closer, slow and tentative but also all too fast. When Yaz parts her lips to speak, they’re halted by the sudden, intoxicating proximity Jemma has greedily claimed. Soft, painted lips ghost in a kiss against her own, curious, daring. 

Despite the sudden conflict in her brain, Yaz can’t help but respond in kind. Jemma is intriguing, not just in nature but in sensation — the way she moves against her to accommodate firmer, more intent brushes of lips against lips, the way her lashes flutter against Yaz’s cheek. 

Jemma is addictive, but she’s not quite sure she likes that. 

Yaz breaks away with a gasp when her senses seem to seep back into place like grass and ferns after a wildfire; weakened, but not weak. She reaches out, giving Jemma’s shoulder a fruitless shove. “What the _ fuck?” _

The blonde simply stares blankly at her counterpart, lipstick smudged and the cut on her lip re-opened. A slow stream of blood is captured and stemmed at the tip of her finger. 

“Well,” she drawls, smirking, smug. She studies the droplet perched at the end of her digit, but ensures she meets Yaz’s gaze when she flicks her tongue over the crimson substance. “I certainly felt _that_.”


	4. late night devil (put your hands on me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is where the M rating kicks in, folks : ))))))
> 
> thank u @prettyyoungking for betaing!!!

"I can’t believe you did that,” Yaz sighs, curling her palm around a mug of steaming coffee as she leans against the counter. 

Jemma rests against the one opposite, frozen peas back in place below her eye. The swelling has receded slightly, but it just means both of her piercing green eyes can fix on Yaz now. A smirk curves her lips. “Not my fault you’re still thinking about it.” she reaches out, plucking at a fresh lily from the vase on Yaz’s countertop, much to her chagrin — lilies are her favourite flower, apparently. She notes the tidbit of information away for the future. 

“Stop it.” Yaz accompanies the imperative with a glare, though it doesn’t hold as much assuredness now she’s felt Jemma’s lips on hers — and enjoyed it. She turns to pour the liquid down the sink once it’s half-empty if only to escape Jemma’s gaze. 

“Why?” Her voice purrs into her ear at the same time a hand comes to rest against her hip. “If I recall correctly, it seemed like you enjoyed it.” She notices the shiver Yaz tries desperately to hide and scoffs, the action falling in a warm breeze against the back of Yaz’s neck. 

“You can’t just —” Yaz starts, but her words slink off into nothingness when her plait is swept aside and a searing kiss melts like liquid lava against her neck. Cold fingertips settle against her pulse point, pressing against the sensitive flesh there. The contrast in temperature makes Yaz gasp and in the back of her mind, she hears the frozen food hit the floor. 

“Your heart is racing,” Jemma notes in a whisper, slotting her front against Yaz’s back when the dark-haired woman doesn’t move to push her away. She swallows when Yaz’s breathing falters and her hands grip at the worktop, knuckles white. 

“You’re a murderer,” Yaz counters, working desperately to dispel the fire stoked to unwanted flames in the pit of her stomach. When Jemma’s hand drops from her neck to settle over her stomach, inching between buttons to press freezing fingers to sensitive flesh, Yaz’s whole body shudders against her. “_ Jemma.” _

“We all have our hobbies, babe,” the blonde sighs into the shell of her ear when exploring hands drift further, unbuttoning and flaying the bottom of her shirt to span slender fingers over toned muscles. The firmness there makes her gut burn and her thoughts spiral. “Christ, you feel good.” 

“Jemma, please —” Despite her utterances, Yaz isn’t quite sure what she’s attempting to achieve, because Jemma is breathing down her neck and her lips are against her skin and her hands are moving upwards and she can’t think clearly any longer. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Her fingers pause on the middle button of her shirt, where they hesitate to await permission. She might be working her alluring ways to the point where they’re both breathless without the suffocating nature of a kiss, but she’s not going to do anything Yaz doesn’t consent to. 

She’s not a bad guy — she just disposes of them. 

Yaz is torn and breathless and wound up like a coiled spring. She should say no, should push her away, should arrest her for first-degree murder and send her behind bars — but then her hips nudge forward, teasing, testing, against Yaz’s own, lips regaining purchase on her neck and baring teeth to her pulse and her decision is made. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Surprised, Jemma inches back, only to turn the dark-haired woman around in a swift, forceful movement. Her heated gaze bores into pools of deep brown, assuaging her thoughts into a sensical pattern. 

Yaz gasps as the counter digs painfully into her lower back, fixing Jemma with a glare. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“I’ll try my best, ma’am.” With strength which continues to surprise her, Jemma slips her hands under Yaz’s thighs and lifts her onto the countertop. She slots against her, nudging her knees apart so their bodies can mould and form to one another’s like puzzle pieces into place. “Never had any complaints before.”

“Can you _ please _ shut up and kiss me?” Yaz remarks slyly, begging for threads of control not yet within reach. 

Jemma leans in, cupping the back of Yaz’s neck as though to draw her into a kiss. Instead of capturing her lips, though, she curls her fingers tighter around her neck. She squeezes, just enough to warn her, then eases her hold and smirks. “You’re not the one in charge here.”

Yaz can’t help the filthy noise which clambers up her throat and rolls along her tongue when their lips finally mould together, slipping her hands into Jemma’s hair and dragging her closer. 

Jemma needs her, and she’s not going to take her time. Buttons bounce to the floor at her feet when she simply tugs the rest of Yaz’s shirt open, exposing lightly defined muscles and a plain white bra. “_ Christ _.”

They’re rushed, urgent and firm in their movements when Jemma deepens the kiss, edging a hand along Yaz’s thigh. She nips at her bottom lip, then draws it between her teeth to tug and suck until it’s pinkened and swollen. She smirks at her handiwork, meeting Yaz’s dilated pupils and losing herself in the desire blooming there. “Let me feel you.” 

When Yaz simply breathes a filthy moan into her mouth, dragging her into another kiss, Jemma curls her fingers around the fly of her work trousers and has them undone with a flick of her wrist. A shiver rolls down her spine when she slips her hand past the open waistband and into slick, welcoming heat.

The second cool fingers flex and brush against her clit, Yaz all but _ mewls _ . She drops her head, peeling back Jemma’s shirt to bare her shoulder to the curve of her lips. “ _ God.” _

Jemma keens, thumb pressed firmly against her clit while the rest of her deft fingers search out wet warmth. “You’re so ready for me, Yasmin,” she purrs in pleasant, smug surprise, teasing just past her entrance to gather moisture before she pulls her hand from her underwear entirely. 

Yaz groans into her shoulder, pulling back to make a complaint before the sight stops all thoughts in their tracks. 

With dark, stormy hues, Jemma slips her digits past her lips and grants herself a taste. “So good,” she sighs, lashes fluttering. 

The sound has Yaz whining and squirming in place, and the sudden return of attention to the bundle of nerves between her legs has her moaning in seconds. Jemma is firm and skilled and a little rough but it’s just what Yaz needs.

When she sinks a finger straight into her core with ease, Yaz bites down into the creamy flesh of her shoulder, hips shifting in a slow grind against her palm. She wants more. She needs more. “More — Jemma, please.”

“Thy lady doth protest too much,” Jemma growls snidely into her ear, but Yaz can tell the graze of teeth against her skin is effecting her if her gasps are anything to go by. She likes a touch of pain, it seems. 

A second digit accompanies the first and they begin to move in tandem, swift, deep thrusts which take Yaz’s breath away. The pleasant sting of being filled just so is only emphasised when another finger crosses the boundary. Yaz whimpers against her skin. “_ Fuck _.” 

“If you could see yourself right now, —” Jemma growls, forearm muscles tensing with every thrust. She aims and perfects a spot inside Yaz which has stars clouding her vision each time, despite the lack of movement her clothing offers. “ — God, you’re beautiful like this, Yasmin.”

“Jemma,” Yaz cries, biting down once more, claiming the flesh as her own until it’s red-raw and Jemma is sufficiently aroused. She’s reeling with each powerful, targeted pump of her fingers inside her, her thumb rough and unyielding in its pressure on her clit. She draws rapid circles there, sending Yaz’s hips jumping off the counter to chase the dizzying sensations. At this rate, she’s not going to last much longer. 

When Jemma ducks her head to press her lips against Yaz’s neck and _ bite, _ the dark-haired woman moans — a guttural, feral kind of moan. “ _ Jemma _, fuck. I’m so —” 

“I could just leave you like this,” Jemma whispers against her skin, tongue flicking over the mark she’s made to soothe and cool the flesh. “On the edge, _ desperate _ for me. _ ” _She presses firmer against her clit, hips moving to assist her thrusting fingers. “One touch away.”

“Don’t you _ fucking d— _ah!” Yaz gasps, reaching out to clutch at Jemma’s wrist, digging her nails in against the most prominent vein there when she hits just the right spot to leave her trembling. 

As if knowing exactly where the nerves connect within her, Jemma repeats the movement and studies Yaz’s features when, after two more well-angled thrusts, she clenches, then flutters deliciously around the intrusion. 

She’s dizzy and squirming and crying her name within seconds, contracting and spasming against Jemma’s fingers while she tumbles into an abyss of soul-shaking bliss. 

When she comes back around, half a minute later, her forehead rests against Jemma’s shoulder and her thighs twitch with tiny aftershocks. Yaz knows fully-well what the blonde’s expression is before she even looks up, meeting her steely gaze. 

“Five minutes, babe. That’s one hell of a boost to my ego.” She’s grinning — the kind of expression one presents when they know all the secrets the universe has to offer; a child having cheated in their spelling test; a gorgeous assassin with talented hands and alluring words. 

“_ Shut up.” _Yaz wants to slap her. She feels dirty and used and not quite herself — as she has done since she’d met the woman still stood between her legs, wiping her coated fingers against her black slacks. She shouldn’t want to wipe the smirk off her face; shouldn’t want to turn them around and sink to her knees; shouldn’t currently be reaching out to drag her into a kiss, but she wants to. “I bet I could do better.”

Alongside Jemma’s poorly-disguised gasp comes the crackling of Yaz’s walkie-talkie, attached to the vest she’d tossed onto her couch upon entrance to her flat. 

_ She’s on shift, for God’s sake. How could she forget a thing like that? _ ** _Jemma_ ** _ — that’s how. _

Yaz holds her breath as the voice of the operator rings through. 

_ PC Khan, there’s been a report of a mugging on Maiden Street. Get there pronto. _

“Shit,” Yaz sighs under her breath, refusing to give in to the kisses Jemma dots along her jaw. “Jemma, stop. I’m on shift. I can’t just ignore this to give you a quick shag.” 

“Language, babe,” Jemma scoffs, but she lets her go when Yaz moves to gather her vest and coat, buttoning up her shirt in the process. “You sure you can’t pretend you’re stuck in traffic or something?” 

“_ Jemma,” _ Yaz chortles at the perfectly naive look on her face, glancing down when Jemma motions towards her trousers. Sheepishly, she does her fly back up. “I bet you don’t do that in your line of work — why would _ I?” _

The blonde collects herself, wandering towards the door at the same time as her counterpart. She smooths down her suit and re-applies her red lipstick in the mirror the lift offers on the way down to the main entrance to the block. It’s only then that she replies, tucking her hands back into her pockets and standing _ unnecessarily _ close to Yaz’s side. “My fath— _ boss _ — my _ boss _ would probably kill me, actually, yeah.”

Yaz’s focus falters and she turns. 

The lift counts down from ten. 

“Did you say your _ father _?”

“No,” Jemma answers quickly, too quickly, and suddenly she’s toying with the sleeves of her bloodied shirt, which are longer than those of her short black blazer. 

The lift stops at the ground floor, and Jemma steps aside politely to let a distracted Yaz pass first. “So it’s a family business? God, Jemma. That’s — that’s _ sick.” _

Jemma flinches, and for the first time since they met, she looks uncomfortable, regretful and worried. The minute they’re outside, she reaches out to grasp Yaz’s arm in a firm hold, pupils imploring. “Don’t nosey around in business you’re too young and inexperienced to deal with, Yasmin.” She pulls her hand back, dragging it through blonde locks. It’s still too early for many people to populate the streets, so their interaction goes unheard, unseen. “This isn’t something you can rescue someone from like a hero in a fairytale. _ Christ, _this was a mistake — I should’ve never —.” She turns, pacing on the spot, and Yaz lifts a hand to curl around her wrist while her radio blares against her chest. 

Yaz winces at the force Jemma uses to drag her around the side of the building, pressing her up against red bricks and grasping the curve of her love-bitten neck in seconds. “Stay away from me.”

“_ You _ came to _ me!” _ Yaz bites back, struggling lightly against her hold — it’s not enough to take her breath away, but it’s not exactly a comforting thought knowing these hands have killed, mercilessly, due to the command of Jemma’s own _ parents? _ “Let go of me, Jemma.” 

“That’s — you’re —” Jemma stammers, brows pinched, features ashen. She’s losing her touch. Her hand eases, then drops to her side. She takes a step back. “I need to stay away from you. It’s not good for me.”

“If you need to stay away from me, then _ stay away. _Pretty simple, really. Now, I have to go to work,” Yaz counters, walking backwards towards the parking lot and eyeing the blonde’s distressed form in curious confusion. “Gotta get that experience, huh? Since I'm so young and naive.” 

When Jemma doesn’t seem to have any kind of response in return, Yaz rolls her eyes and climbs into her car. By the time she’s turned it around and started heading for the main road, Jemma has disappeared. 

“Whoa, _ mate — _is that a hickey?” Ryan whispers conspiratorially to his colleague when she turns up on scene three minutes late with two suspects caught already. He’d zeroed in on her immediately — she’s his best friend, after all, and the red-purple hue to her neck, just above her collar, had garnered his attention immediately. 

“Hm? Oh, uh, no, it was —” she starts, cheeks blossoming with heat and colour. 

“Did you ‘trip over your cat’ again?” He tilts his head, nudging her shoulder playfully but only finding tension there. Suddenly, he finds, she looks like she might cry. “Yaz? You okay?” 

“Car,” Yaz manages, motioning towards the coloured vehicle she’s been leaning against for the last five minutes. Ryan nods wordlessly, padding around to the passenger side and slipping into the warmth of the vehicle gratefully. 

“So, what’s up? You look like death warmed up,” he comments, but the look on Yaz’s face isn’t something he’s witnessed before. 

She looks like the weight of the world rests solely upon her shoulders; she looks guilty — ultimately, though, she looks scared, not dissimilar to a child stepping a little too close to the lion’s enclosure at the zoo. 

“I’ve really messed up, Ryan,” Yaz admits, and when Ryan only offers comfort and reassurance, she cries. 

Over the radio, a call suddenly comes in — two men, the newly-discovered leaders of a ring of criminals, found slaughtered three streets from Yaz’s apartment. 

When they turn up to find lillies clutched in the cold, pale hands of the victims, Yaz heaves into the nearest dustbin. 


	5. your lips, my lips, apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thanks for betaing @prettyyoungking!!!!
> 
> enjoy!!!!

Her cursor flickers and blinks and whirls with a loading symbol, taking the sole focus of her pupils and mind in unison while others work, chatter and procrastinate around her. 

She’s close enough to watch pixels shift and surge with colour when the next page flashes forward, a misjudgment of her elbow sending the words of her search into oblivion. Red strikes like lightning over the whites of her eyes, giving way to the sleep she’s missed over the last few days. 

“Yaz?” Ryan calls on approach, hands tucked into the pockets of his vest. When she doesn’t turn right away, he reaches out for the back of her swivel chair and gives a playful jerk. “Yaz?”

If he notices the way she flinches and reels back a touch, he doesn’t say anything. 

Yaz blinks away fatigue like snowflakes on lashes in mid-winter when she eventually turns to face him. “Yeah?” 

Ryan deflates somewhat. Usually, she’d throw something snarky his way just for spooking her. Instead, all he’s met with are tired eyes and anxiety-ridden features. 

“Noble wants to see you,” he reveals, rocking on his toes like a younger sibling when their elder doesn’t want to play. He can see the way Yaz flinches this time, eyes widening for the briefest of seconds. Ryan blinks, and she’s managed to recover. “Plus we still need to have that talk later, okay? You’re dead on your feet, mate.” 

Dread settles like a dead weight on her chest when Yaz rises from her seat, straightening out her shirt and swallowing around the sudden tightness at the back of her throat. “Did she say why?” 

“Something about the murder case, I think.” Ryan shrugs, unaware, unburdened.

Yaz tucks her hands into her pockets to disguise the way they tremble. Her heart thrums and rings uncomfortably in her ears while reluctant feet carry her towards the office at the end of the corridor. Into the unknown, she weakly holds onto her composure. Silent prayers fall into musky air. 

Three raps of her knuckles against old, varnished wood later, Yaz pokes her head around the door to meet cool green eyes and well-groomed red hair. “You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

The waver to her voice goes unnoticed. Chief inspector Noble glances up from the paperwork strewn over her desk. Her office is nothing grand, a collection of family photos framed in the corner of her workspace. The top drawer closes, hiding with it a hoard of snack foods. She reaches for a packet of biscuits at her side, tilting her head. “Bourbon?” 

If she wasn’t sick to her stomach at the unbidden information she’s been keeping quiet, Yaz would happily accept. In an attempt to keep her worries at bay, Yaz smiles, shaking her head politely. “I prefer custard creams if I’m honest. They’re far superior, ma’am.”

Looking personally offended by Yaz’s revelation, Donna shakes her head, setting the biscuits aside. Her tone is chiding, but in a playful manner, and although she’s considered one of the more intimidating members of the force, Yaz only sees her good nature and kind eyes. This only makes it harder to hold her tongue. “Guess we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that, Yaz. And please, call me Donna. No ‘ma’am’s within these four walls, alright?” 

“Yes, ma— _ Donna. _Yes, Donna,” Yaz corrects, slipping gracefully into the chair Donna motions to. It feels an awful lot like parent’s evening back in school, or intermittent chats with her head of year when hurtful words were getting too much to bear. Yaz blinks out of the whirlwind sending her mind into spirals, meeting Donna’s gaze through a haze of sleep-deprived pupils and fatigued features. She feels stale, past her best-by date and left on the shelf to suffer the consequences of her actions. 

“So, Yaz. I asked you here to discuss the events of the last few weeks and to check in on how you’re doing, really. Standard procedure crap,” Donna starts, picking up a pen and reaching for her notebook. She seems at ease, so Yaz’s muscles work unsuccessfully to mimic the same lax posture. 

Her heart eases from its plummet when she realises she isn’t in trouble. Not yet, at least. She toys with her sleeve, trying hard to retain eye contact. If there’s anything she’s learnt from her job, it’s how criminals exude innocence right up until the last minute. “Right, yeah. Of course.”

“There’s something else, too,” Donna adds, re-organising her paperwork to read through a familiar form. They’re the notes from Jemma’s last murder — two male victims with histories more corrupted than beneficial to society.

_ Shit. _Yaz curses to herself for thinking in Jemma’s manner. They’re still people, she reminds herself, with parents and siblings and hopes and aspirations, even though the latter weren’t exactly lived up to. They’re dead now, and that’s that. The end of a line cut short by the woman Yaz can’t seem to draw herself away from. 

“I think I’m going to take you off the case, Yaz — give you another to work on instead,” Donna states, throwing the younger woman off course and leaving brown eyes wide in shock rejection. 

Yaz shakes her head, brows furrowed in a firm line, gaze set. “Ma’am. Donna. You can’t.” She rephrases when Donna blinks in surprise. “I mean — I understand your concern, Donna, but I have to do this. I’m the closest to the case, I’ve _ seen _ her.” 

“Maybe a little too close, Yaz,” Donna counters, referring to the way she’s picked away the threads of her cuffs and the noticeable rings around her eyes. “You look exhausted, Yaz. It’s a lot, you know — witnessing something like that for the first time. It makes you think a whole different way. It changes you.”

“I’m fine,” Yaz argues, though it’s a fruitless effort. She sits up a little straighter, coming off a touch stronger. When Donna folds her arms, raising both brows in unison, she sinks like an overpopulated dinghy in unpredictable waters. “Okay, okay, maybe I’m lacking on the whole ‘sleep’ thing at the minute, but that’s not because of the case. Donna, please, you can’t take me off it, it’s my _ duty." _

Torn, Donna regards the police officer with a contemplative frown. Her tone is a little gentler this time around, but she’s still going to have to be firm to be kind. “Then what _ is _it, Yaz? I can’t afford to have one of our best officers off their top-form.” 

“It’s — it’s —” Yaz starts without a plan to go on, shifting in her seat. Beneath her layers of uniform, sweat breaks out. 

Donna gives her a moment, patient, attentive. She’s struggling; she knows that, but talking is always the best way to start.

“I’m just — I’ve been dealing with something in my personal life, but it’s over. It’s _ totally _ over. I promise I'll be more focused from now on,” Yaz argues, only half-lying. 

“You know you can always come to me if there are any issues, right, Yaz?” Donna implores, arms unwinding, her decision wearing thin. 

Yaz nods swiftly, gaze averting. “Of course, ma’am.”

Donna gives in if only due to the unwelcome soft spot she holds for the woman. “You can stay on the case, but if I see _ any _ sign you’re struggling, you’ll be out of there faster than these biscuits go down. Is that a deal?” 

Yaz’s features unfurl into a chaste smile and she stands, re-adjusting her vest. “It’s a deal, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Don’t let me down, Yaz,” Donna notes, a chiding, teasing warning which sets Yaz’s heart plummeting to her heavy boots once more. “I’d offer you to have the afternoon off to catch up on your sleep, but it’s pretty busy out there today. Sorry.” 

Before Yaz slips through the door and into chaos, Donna clears her throat pointedly. She’s not usually one for sentiment.“Be careful out there, Yaz.”

“So? What was that all about?” Ryan queries from her side when the duo slips into their patrol car ten minutes later, but he’s not necessarily nosey, just concerned. He’s been doing that a lot, recently — growing concerned over the littlest things Yaz does or doesn’t do. 

“Oi, nosey-pants.” Yaz starts the engine up, easing off the clutch and navigating out of the car-park as though by second-nature. When Ryan rolls his eyes, sitting back in his seat, Yaz continues. “She wanted me off the case.” 

“Wait, really?” Ryan frowns, sitting up. “Why? You’re — like, the only person to actually see the killer. You’re a key witness.” As usual, he stands up to any reservations others hold over his best friend. Yaz loves him for that. 

“That’s what I said!” She gestures with one hand while she drives, keeping her eyes peeled on passers-by. In the wing mirror, she thinks she sees a flash of short blonde hair. “I managed to persuade her, anyway. This case is too important.”

“It’s a tough one, that’s for sure. Have you heard? They’ve managed to make a reconstruction of what she looks like,” Ryan divulges, reaching into his pocket for his mobile. 

Yaz freezes, the remainder of his words falling on deaf ears. “What?”

When they stop at a red light, Ryan thrusts his phone beneath her nose, popping both brows in question. “This what she looked like?” 

Yaz drops her gaze to the sketch, blonde hair framing pale, angular cheekbones and a strong jaw. Her eyes are the perfect shade of green to send Yaz’s stomach to her throat and flashes of shifting bodies and crooning voices rippling through her very core. 

“Yaz? You okay?” Ryan retracts the device as quickly as it came, watching Yaz’s expression shift to something indecipherable. 

“Yeah, it just brings back some memories, that’s all — ones I’d rather forget,” Yaz murmurs earnestly, quietly, and she’s not lying, she tells herself — even if her words are constrewn towards the state she found herself in a week ago against her own kitchen counter — rather than the murder scene which made itself a catalyst to her current situation. 

“Oh, man. I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t even think.” Ryan frowns, guilt riding his features of its usually cheeky grin. “Come on, there’s no call-ins yet — how about we grab a coffee?” 

Coffee turns into lunch and the lack of activity on their radios means they’re granted an hour or so of peace in a city bustling with commuters. 

“I need to ask you for some advice,” Yaz quips from nowhere, interrupting the comfortable quiet they’d settled into.

“Is it about a girl?” Ryan mouths around a bite into his fried egg sandwich. There’s a playfulness to his tone.

Yaz grimaces at Ryan’s manners, but his question makes her falter. “Maybe.” When he sets the rest of his sandwich down to listen attentively, she withers under his expectant gaze. “Have you ever been with someone you know you should avoid?”

When Ryan tilts his head, throwing her a surprised look, Yaz begins to gnaw anxiously at her bottom lip. “Avoid how?” he asks, curiosity niggling away at his presumptions. “Like — avoid because they’re taken, or —” he falters, turning sceptical, “ — or avoid because they’re not good for you?” 

Yaz curls her palms around her coffee cup, but by now it’s cold, so any comfort she longs for isn’t there. She doesn’t deserve reassurance now anyway, not when she’s in so deep. “The latter.” 

“How bad is bad?” Ryan questions, picking his sandwich back up to take a bite. 

The sight of food churns Yaz’s stomach, so she averts her gaze. “Bad,” she answers, then thinks. “But sometimes it feels right, even though I know full well it’s not. It feels like there’s _ something _ there, underneath it all. There has to be — I’d be able to walk away otherwise.” 

“Sounds like it’s your call, mate,” Ryan hums, and when Yaz levels their gazes again, all she finds is reassurance. “Just take care of yourself, and if shit hits the fan, you’re your own main priority, not some girl.” Then, dismissive of his own advice, Ryan murmurs, “anyway, you know her better than I do.”

“Yeah,” Yaz nods, but it’s only a half-arsed motion. “I doubt that,” she snorts. 

Before Ryan has a chance to comment further, in unison, their radios blare. “Back to work for the dream team, aye?” 

“Don’t — don’t call us that,” Yaz remarks teasingly, slipping from her seat and fishing her car keys out of her pocket. 

“Fine, what about _ fam _?” Ryan suggests, jogging after her when she exits the cafe. 

Yaz pauses, turning back with a disgusted grimace. “You sure those eggs haven’t scrambled your brain?”

“Oh! Ha! Good pun, mate. Funny,” he drawls, rounding to the passenger’s side of the car. 

Yaz slips in first, locking the doors as soon as she enters. 

“_ Yaz,” _Ryan grumbles, knocking on the window. It lowers an inch so Yaz can respond.

“What’s the password?” she tilts her head, forcing Ryan to relive memories of primary school and an old, hand-made shed in the woods which they had created themselves one long, warm summer.

“Yaz is the best?” he responds, brows pinched in frustration. 

“That’ll do.” The door unlocks and Ryan slips inside with a huff. For the first time in recent days, Yaz laughs. 

* * *

It’s a Friday night and the local pub is bustling with activity. Yaz nurses her second lemonade of the evening while her colleagues chatter on, piping in with her own comments once in a while but otherwise lost in thought. It’s one of the newest recruit’s birthday, and with some lengthy encouragement from Ryan, Yaz had decided to join in on the occasion. Condensation pools around the icy liquid in her grasp, but the goosebumps dotting her skin are encouraged by something else entirely. 

When she turns in her stool, taking in the environment for the third time in the last half an hour, seeking out the eyes she feels burning into the back of her skull, she comes away unsuccessful once more. 

Half-hidden behind a menu two tables away, Jemma has never felt so thankful for the deceiving nature of a disguise. 

Draining the rest of his beer, Ryan twists in his seat to regard his best friend. “We’re thinking of going to the club after this. You in?” 

“I really shouldn’t —” Yaz starts, but when the rest of the group raise their brows and ready their tongues in preparation for persuasion, she figures she has no choice on the matter. 

The club is sweaty and sticky and her boots cling to layers upon layers of spilt and strewn alcohol the minute they enter. Yaz nudges through the crowd for a glass of ice cold water, leaving Ryan and the rest of her colleagues to merge onto the dancefloor. 

Clubs have never really been her thing, but if she went home, all she’d do is think about the mess her life, her job, her future prospects are in. The deafening beat helps disperse her thoughts into non-existence and give herself something else to focus on. 

Adjacent to the bar, the fake, manufactured locks of a red wig have been torn away and discarded, leaving Jemma’s hair a light in the neon dark. 

When Yaz’s eyes land on such a sight as the woman continuing to haunt her very soul, her drink falls through her fingers and crunches against multicoloured tiles. 

She silently curses the part of her relieved to see the familiar angled jaw and piercing eyes. 

Their eyes meet when her accident leaves the crowd jeering at her, and Yaz swallows. 

There’s a brunette in the booth beside Jemma, a hand resting against her thigh and words melting too close to the blonde’s ear to hold any kind of innocence. 

Yaz desperately quells the sudden spark of jealousy which surges through from the core of her being, rendering her all but gawping at the sight. 

When Jemma smirks, reaching for the other woman’s hand and leading her onto the dancefloor just metres from Yaz’s torn self, she breathes harshly with the urge to tear them from each other and claim the blonde as her own. 

Jemma’s eyes are on hers when she loops an arm around the oblivious brunette, drawing her closer, breathing her in, hips slotting against hips in a slow dance with only one conclusion in sight. 

When she kisses her, Yaz feigns a gasp. She wants to avert her gaze, to head for the doors and walk home and dwell in self-pity, but then Jemma’s eyes open and her steely gaze bores into her own as she continues to work her lips against the brunette’s and suddenly, all conscious thought leaves her frozen to the spot. 

They break for air and the younger woman moves her lips to Jemma’s neck, trailing kisses against skin Yaz had marked only a week previous. 

Jemma’s lips part on a silent moan, but her gaze is steady. 

The motion breaks something inside of Yaz and she launches forward before she can think, winding between drunken students and leering men to head straight for the infuriating blonde. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Yaz quips to the young brunette she draws away from Jemma’s form, and Jemma grins mercilessly at the reaction she’d succeeded in obtaining. She all but drags her from the sticky dance floor and into the cobbled alley behind it, and only when, pressed forcefully against white tiles, does she take in her attire. 

Another custom-fit suit hugs Jemma’s slim figure in all the right places, her deep red blazer the only coverage provided over torturous hints of gentle swells. 

“_ Fuck,” _ Yaz breathes, because any woman in a suit is a cause for great celebration and worship. When she meets her teasing gaze, she doesn’t waste time licking chapped lips before they’re pressed against Jemma’s own in a possessive, searing kiss. “How _ dare _ you."

The back of Jemma’s head hits the wall with more force than necessary, but the kiss which follows knocks all the air from her lungs anyway. 

“You want to play dirty, huh?” Yaz murmurs into her mouth, pulling back to capture her bottom lip between her teeth and tug, aggressive and firm. She slips a thigh between Jemma’s and nudges upward, earning a sharp gasp. “Two can play at that game.” 

“No talking,” Jemma huffs out the words against her lips and teeth, hoping to gain the upper hand when she reaches for the lapels of Yaz’s leather jacket and draws her closer. The result is another press of strong thigh against the burning heat between her legs. 

Silhouettes dance against the walls like ghosts in the night when Jemma next pulls back to breathe, ducking her head to trace swollen lips against Yaz’s strong jaw. In response, Yaz plucks at the fly of those infuriatingly well-fitted slacks, dipping her hand past the waistband with a groan of frustration. 

“Do you get off on this, Yaz? The _ adrenaline _ ? The _ risk? _” Jemma purrs, nudging her nose along her neck before she nips at her earlobe. Deep red lipstick smudges over her flesh like wine seeps through carpet, staining the skin in its wake. “Does it turn you on?” 

Yaz shivers, but it’s not because of the cold night air. “I thought —” She pauses to await Jemma’s harsh whine and consenting nod before she slips her hand into pleasantly damp heat, “ — you said —” she circles the bundle of nerves there, pinning her against the wall with her hips, “ — no talking?” 

She swallows the guttural moan Jemma breathes, hips kicking into her palm. “Fuck you.”

“I’m already fucked, _ babe,” _ Yaz bites back, ducking her head to take out her frustrations on her neck instead. “No point in holding back now, huh?” She’s feeling reckless, fingers moving to her entrance so she can slip one inside her and _ finally _experience the way she feels around her, accommodating enough for a second almost immediately. 

Jemma has no way to respond to that, mostly because of the way Yaz takes control, filling her in the best way possible and thrusting once she’s satisfied with the angle. She tips her head back, the cool tiles mixed with Yaz’s hot, heavy breaths sending a shiver down her spine. “Fine, then fuck _ me.” _

So she does, and it feels dirty and wrong and downright _ sinful _, but Yaz finds solace and relief in the gasps and moans and whimpers falling past the other woman’s lips. An assassin, a killer, the most dangerous kind of person Yaz can think of, and she’s unravelling beneath her fingers like the paper chains in the window at the end of the alleyway. 

When she comes, Yaz clamps her free hand over her painted lips to silence her cry. She’s trembling against her for a minute or so longer, breathing soft little whines and gasps into the creases of her palm while she comes down from her high until their consciences catch up and both women regard each other in a new light. It’s as though they were both under a trance-like state, but Yaz can’t deny the dull throb between her legs when she slips her hand free from Jemma’s trousers. 

“_God_,” Jemma sighs, her free hand fisted in the material of Yaz’s floral blouse. 

Two students pass by the entrance, so Yaz ducks her head into Jemma’s shoulder to merge into the shadows for a second or so. The other woman is almost limp against her, knees weak, thighs still quivering a touch. Tiny pulses centre at her core. “Close enough.” 

She slips her hand from her mouth to trace her other thumb along Jemma’s bottom lip instead, smudging the lipstick further. Slick fingers dance along the plump red-pink skin, and she can’t hold back her gasp when Jemma parts them slightly, driving forward to take her index into her mouth. She swirls her tongue, once, twice, and Yaz makes a decision she knows she’s going to regret. “_ Fuck, _ Jemma,” she curses, unable to peel her eyes away. “Come back to mine, _ please.” _

“You know that’s a bad idea, Yaz,” Jemma murmurs once she’s done, pulling back, tilting her head. Even now, with crimson makeup smeared over her lips and cheeks, she’s still the most beautiful woman Yaz has ever seen. If anything, it makes her look even more heavenly. 

“Oh? And _ this _ wasn’t? Now’s not the time to worry about getting caught, Jemma,” Yaz counters, stepping back if only so she can focus properly. She kicks an empty can of beer at her feet, folding her arms. 

Doing her fly back up, Jemma scoffs. “Yaz, this isn’t about me. This is me making sure _ you _ aren’t in danger. You don’t even want to _ know _ what my father would do if he found out we were — doing whatever _ this _ is.” She motions to the space between them, keeping her voice low. The walls talk too loud to take any risks. “You’re already at risk, Yaz.” Then, quieter, but stern, “We can’t keep doing this.” 

“So it _ is _ a family business, huh? I knew it,” Yaz conspires, pausing in her pacing to furrow her brows at the other woman. “God, you’re sick.” 

“You keep saying that, but then you drag me out of a club to fuck me in a dirty alleyway without even blinking?” Jemma raises her voice, then, upon realising, surveys their surroundings. “Getting some major mixed signals, babe.” 

“Because you’re too _ good _ for this, Jemma.” Yaz rolls her eyes when Jemma smirks at the insinuation on instinct. “I don’t just mean the sex,” she huffs, flinching when her boots splash through a puddle she hadn’t spotted in the low light. “I mean — surely you wouldn’t choose this life?” 

When another group of students begin loitering at the entrance, exchanging small foiled narcotics between them, Jemma reaches out to pull Yaz into the shadows, sinking onto a barrel behind the nearest dustbin. She points to the one next to her, where Yaz perches without question. 

In the dark, Jemma’s features are even more angular. “Choice wasn’t a part of it, Yaz. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.” 

“So _ educate me, _Jemma,” Yaz argues, turning to face her. “Let me help you.” 

Jemma is stumped, hands falling to the barrel’s rim between her astride legs. The feminine elegance of her suit contrasts with her posture, reminding her of etiquette lessons during her teen years. No wonder she’s so rebellious now, she thinks. 

Then again, there’s a difference between rebeliousness and straight-up murder. 

“You’re strong, Yaz, and you’re _ so _ brave, but you can’t help me,” Jemma whispers, words coming harsh but earnest. Yaz can tell she’s speaking truthfully just by the way her hands fidget and her shoulders ease, and that worries her. “You need to get that out of your head.” 

“There’s got to be _ some _way, Jemma,” Yaz remarks. “There’s always a way.” Although even Yaz’s optimism wavers. 

“It’s your funeral, babe,” Jemma replies, defeated, head falling forward to rest in open palms, elbows propped up by her knees. 

A faint drizzle interrupts the surface of still pools of rainwater once fallen. The clouds above threaten rumbles of thunder to the beings below. 

“Jemma,” Yaz murmurs a minute or so later, reaching out to brush a hand against her shoulder. The gentleness to her touch is something neither woman are used to, so the bottle blonde glances up right away. Under her gaze, Yaz’s impulse wilts. She reaches into her wallet, tucked away in her pocket. “Take my card.” 

“Thought this part was meant to come before the sex?” Jemma murmurs, demure but teasing. She accepts the slip of paper anyway. 

“I’m just saving us the issue of bumping into each other once in a blue moon, that’s all,” Yaz shrugs, but the tone of her voice suggests she’s not as unaffected as she acts. “Plus, if you think of a way to escape this hell, you can let me know.” 

“Not going to happen, ba—” 

“Yaz? Yaz, you out here?” It’s Ryan. 

Yaz flinches, leaning up to peek over the top of the dustbin she’s perched next to only to find her best friend at the entrance, squinting into the darkness. She ducks back down to alert Jemma. “Shit, I’ve got to —” her words trickle into empty space, a flash of blonde hair disappearing past the opposite entrance to the alleyway. “ — go.”

When Yaz slinks out from the shadows and approaches her pacing best friend, he greets her with a shocked expression she hasn’t witnessed before. Immediately, she’s on high-alert. “Hey! What’s wrong?” 

“Yaz! There you are!” He reaches out, dragging her into a bone-crushing hug. “Shit, christ, _ fuck. _ We thought you were _ dead, _Yaz.” 

“I’m perfectly fine, Ryan. What made you think that?” Yaz scoffs, pulling back in utter confusion. 

“It’s the killer, Yaz. Ben spotted her inside, then saw you leave with her. We thought you were going to be her next victim,” Ryan counters, buzzing with adrenaline and relief. 

Yaz is surprised Ryan can’t hear the way her chest constricts and dread mars her bones. She’d been caught, red-handed. 

When she glances up, she finds him regarding her neck with interest. His expression sours. “Mate, is that lipstick on your neck? Why aren’t you acting surprised?” 

The penny drops and her best friend reels back. “Yaz, please tell you’re not screwing her.”


	6. out of mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy graduation day gee!!! i wrote this chapter in one day so i am VERY sorry if its ooc or slow or doesnt make sense i am just,,,, trying my best yall 
> 
> enjoy!!
> 
> tw for blood, a lil gore and drug use (yikes)

“You’ve been mingling, I see.” Gravelly tones echo in from the kitchen when Jemma slips through the door to her apartment, filled with modern furnishings in a mix of deep blues, greys and whites. 

Her kitchen diner overlooks the golden, silver, red, green hues of the city below, but that’s not what captures her attention when she ambles through from the adjoining corridor. 

“Hello, father.” Jemma swallows her apprehension in an audible gulp, wiping any hint of guilt from her features to be replaced with easy, self-satisfied eye contact. She leans in to press a kiss to her father’s cheek, then sweeps over to her fridge for a bottle of glistening white. Her hands are steady when she pours out a helping — a practised skill necessary for anxiety undetected. “And you know I love to mingle. There’s a reason I don’t keep animals as pets — people are just as fun to play with.”

Words, attitudes, tones which have been drilled into her mind since her teenage years and her final escape from the cold emptiness of a children’s home, all enfolding, all reassuring, but not enough to quell her father’s suspicions. 

“You’re suspended from service for a period detailing six weeks,” Harold Smith informs her from his place at her kitchen table, robotic but authoritative, tapping his fingers in a slow rhythm against varnished wood. “Then I’m having you re-assessed and sent to the States.” 

“_ Father, _don’t you dare. I’m on top form. I’ve never felt so in control,” Jemma counters immediately, swilling the liquid in her glass until bubbles rise to the surface in a faint layer. 

“Of your kills, perhaps, but not your urges,” the glaring man straightens out his expensive suit, appearance pristine even in his early sixties. He reaches up to ghost his fingers against the diagonal white line gracing his right cheek, massaging at phantom pain. The puckered skin ends at the corner of his lips, restricting the movement there and giving his words the character his set expression cannot. “I’ve been hearing whispers on the streets for weeks, now, Jemima. You’re losing your streak.”

Jemma stiffens with her wine glass just shy of her lips, her features souring at the purposefully misspoken name. “It’s _ Jemma, _ and this is _ bullshit, _father!” She drains the rest of her glass, then turns to refill it. “You know it is!”

Firm footsteps from behind reach her ears too late and Jemma gasps when a strong hand curls around the one cradling her wine glass, applying enough pressure to work fissures into its surface. As it begins to crack and splinter against her forcibly tight hold, Jemma squirms against the weight of her father’s hand. She turns her head, scouting his expression for the hint of his familiar, sadistic smirk. 

“You’re no daughter of mine if you lose targets because you can’t keep your filthy hands to yourself,” her father snarls against her ear, a single squeeze all it takes for the glass to smash and ingrain her left palm until crimson drips and spreads and pools against the white marble worktop. “Never mind your new morals.”

“Fuck!” Jemma cries when wine seeps into torn, bleeding skin, rendering the lines of her palm slow streams of deep red. It stings and burns and throbs and tears spring to her eyes where usually she can keep them at bay, locked away and archived until she can use them to her advantage. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Consider it a warning, dearest,” he smiles, but there’s no affection, no warmth there. Jemma finds herself thinking of Yaz’s in comparison; the unbidden emotion she carries with her just through the simple upturn of her lips. “Now get yourself cleaned up, clutz. I’ll see you in six weeks.”

He tosses a dishcloth in her direction, which she quickly presses against her blood-soaked hand. “I knew you were too soft from the start.”

She pointedly ignores his rebukes, reaching for a weathered first aid kit — although it’s more of a suitcase at this point, and perching at her breakfast bar_ . _Her bloodied towel is clenched between her teeth when she cleans around the wounds with antiseptic, then reaches for a needle and threads of collagen and silk.

Her front door slams closed after her father with the first interweave of stitches between frayed skin, encouraging a jump and an almost audible tear of flesh. Now her father has disappeared, she lets free on her pained whimpers and gasps as she slowly works to fix his damage. Her teeth bite down hard against the towel, eyes squeezing shut. 

She decides, then and there, that she’ll have found a way to disappear before he next pays a visit. 

There’s a chill in the air when Jemma leaves her apartment, white bandages wrapped securely around her injured hand and shoved into the pocket of her leather jacket. She’s dressed in all black, allowing her to slip between the shadows in a quest for something to numb her, to make her feel something while also drawing her soul from her weathered bones to take an outside look at her suddenly muddled state of mind. 

There’s a bloke at the next street corner, offering up just what she might need. 

Ten minutes later, in the crowded, noisy nature of a club toilet, Jemma breaks a pale blue disc up and lines the resulting dust along the back of her hand. She doesn’t hold back when it comes to inhaling the mystery drug through her nose, a swift shake of her head and a heavy inhale cementing its aid. 

The dance floor is bustling when she steps onto multicoloured vinyl. To her surprise, when a pretty blonde with freckles gracing her cheeks like delicate flecks of paint begins dancing a touch too close not to show intent, Jemma doesn’t quite enjoy it as much as she usually would. If there’s no chase, no lead-up, no anticipation and unpredictability to a task, she quickly finds herself bored. 

“What’s your name?” the petite blonde all but shouts into Jemma’s ear over the thump of bass and the ringing in her head. 

Quite suddenly, Jemma thinks the other woman might have grown another head. Or five. 

“Claire,” Jemma lies, pupils dilating, red lines striking the whites of her eyes like forks of lightning. “What’s yours?”

“Laura,” the younger woman replies before curling her arms drunkenly but smoothly around Jemma’s neck. 

When a parrot flutters in and settles on the blonde’s shoulder, bright green and blue and yellow, and begins talking, Jemma unwinds from her hold with a yelp. “I have to go.” 

She doesn’t look back when she heads for the exit, tripping over her own boot-clad toes in her rush to seek fresh air and solid ground. There’s a clown, leering and superficial with a knife-shaped balloon in his hand while he blocks her way at the fire escape, but, magically, she walks straight through his form. 

Outside, on cold, cobbled streets, luminous pink monkeys run and sweep over dustbins and scale each lamppost she stumbles past until their calls and whoops are all she can hear. 

Jemma crosses the street to head in a direction both familiar and undisputed, oblivious to the chilling screech of wheels on tarmac and a blaring horn. 

The heels of her boots click against the pavement as she walks, arms curled around herself when a swarm of ants climb over her black jeans and blouse, nipping at her skin on the way. She’s more than aware that she’s hallucinating, but everything seems so vivid and her limbs are numbed and she can only feel the way air wraps and envelopes and hugs her form, filters through her nose and mouth and sends goosebumps rising in its wake. Despite the chaos, it’s sort of calming. 

Beneath her breath, she starts humming. There’s a yearning in her gut when she reaches a recognizable block of flats. She sneaks around to the back entrance and clambers, with surprising elegance, over a locked gate and onto the fire escape which winds up and up. 

On the tenth floor, a bedroom window has been swung open, allowing Jemma to slip between panes of glass in the company of the cool evening breeze. 

Catching the heel of her boot on the frame of Yasmin Khan’s window, however, Jemma topples into the room and lands with a thump. 

She doesn’t feel it, though, even as redness spreads from the spot on her forehead which took the brunt of her fall. If she weren’t so numb, she’d have a headache. The rug beneath her form is silky and cushioning, and ballerinas dance and twirl between the strands just shy of Jemma’s wide eyes. 

Yaz’s shriek doesn’t register in her synapses. 

“Jemma, what the _ fuck?” _Yaz cries, gripping tightly at the towel secured around her form, natural curls falling damp and limp over her shoulders. 

She takes in the sight — a mass killer, sprawled on her bedroom floor, humming Coldplay’s _ Yellow _ beneath her breath while she clutches at the threads of her rug and giggles. 

“Can’t you see them, Yaz? _ I _ always wanted to be a ballerina,” Jemma slurs, not even bothering to lift her gaze from the material she’s inhabiting. 

“Jemma?” Yaz reaches for her dressing gown, slipping it on over her towel, fastening it, then dropping the towel from beneath it smoothly. She pads over the carpet towards her like a child faced with the lion enclosure at the zoo. At this moment in time, though, the loopy blonde is more of a kitten than a grand lioness. “Jemma, are you _ drunk _?”

“_ Yaz,” _Jemma grumbles, pulling herself up to sit with her knees tucked to her chest. She’s still watching the purple rug in fascination. “Wait — !” She looks up with a gasp, features contorted in anguish.“You stepped on one of the dancers.” 

“I — _ what _ ?” Yaz counters, bemused, flummoxed, and when a small piece of foil falls from the pocket of Jemma’s jeans, realises with a sense of dread that it isn’t alcohol infiltrating her system, but drugs. “ _ Christ, _Jemma. I’m getting you some water. Stay right there.” 

“M’not moving. They’re still dancing,” Jemma mumbles, dropping her chin atop folded arms and beginning to hum once more. 

Yaz reaches for her pyjamas as she slips from the room, changing hastily before a glass of water, filled to the brim, is carried back into her bedroom. By this time, Jemma has shifted, legs crossed, elbows resting on her knees. 

“What’s this?” Jemma questions when Yaz perches down beside her, holding out the glass. She flinches, furrowing her brows, gripping the rug at her sides. She looks a little scared, but it’s just the drugs reaching their peak in her system. Her fingers tremble when she reaches out to warily accept the liquid. 

“Just water. Go on, drink it up. It’ll do you good,” Yaz implores, reaching out to guide the glass to her lips, fingertips brushing against the back of her hand. She notices her free hand is bandaged up and frowns, tilting her head. 

“Mm, not really thirsty,” Jemma shakes her head, setting the glass aside to glance over Yaz’s shoulder, where a baby elephant juggles footballs. 

“Hey, hey, you’ve got to drink it, Jemma. It’ll make you feel better,” Yaz encourages hopefully, lifting the glass back up. 

When Jemma curls her palm around it again with a huff, leaning in to take a sip, the water misses her lips and pours in a lazy waterfall from her chin to her blouse. Her eyes widen when she pulls back, gaze boring into the ceiling. “Yaz, why is it raining inside your flat?” 

“Oh, my _ god _,” Yaz whispers under her breath, rolling her eyes in fond amusement until suddenly Jemma is peeling her leather jacket off and unbuttoning her blouse. “Wait — Jemma? Jemma, what are you doing?” 

“My shirt’s wet, Yaz,” Jemma deadpans as though undressing is the only way to tackle the problem. 

When the buttons are all undone and Jemma slips the garment from her shoulders, Yaz works hard not to let her eyes wander, but, predictably, she can’t help herself. Brown eyes take in the swell of small breasts, enclosed by deep green lace, and the slow slope of her stomach. She definitely works out, if the slight definition of her stomach is anything to go by, but then again, with a job like hers, Yaz isn’t surprised. 

Just above her waistband, though, a jagged white line mars at the already pale skin, puckering in the centre where, presumedly, a wound once grew deeper. 

When Yaz eventually peels her eyes away, Jemma is thankfully distracted by bubbles floating in the air only she can see. 

Yaz shifts when Jemma takes another sip of water, shuffling over to her chest of drawers to fetch a plain pink jumper from its confines. “Jemma? Put this on, you’re shivering.”

“Smells nice,” her blonde counterpart hums as she slips the item of clothing over her head, dishevelling her hair without care. If Yaz hadn’t quickly nabbed the glass from her hand, though, she would’ve made the same sodden mistake again.

When she settles, seemingly comfortable in her position on the floor, Yaz studies her curiously. She glances at her hand on instinct when, even through the inebriation of drugs, Jemma flinches. 

“Jemma?” Yaz quips gently, drawing the blonde’s attention away from the images forming before her and attracting wide green eyes to her own. She’s as high as a kite. 

“Mm?” Jemma tilts her head, features soft, relaxed and lacking the tension synonymous with her usual expression. 

“What happened to your hand?” She motions towards the white cloth hugging her palm when Jemma appears confused, although now she’s proposed the question, she dreads the answer — assuming she gets a response in the first place. 

“My hand? Oh, uh,” Jemma stammers, racking her brains for the events of a mere few hours earlier. “My father — he was trying to scare me.”

Like lead, dread weighs her down, but curiosity pries her restraint away. 

_ Is she taking advantage? _

“What did he do?”

A beat. 

“He crushed a glass of wine into my hand,” Jemma admits, experimentally flexing her fingers beneath the pressure of her bandages and near-perfect stitching. In the quiet which follows her revelation, her stomach rumbles audibly. “I’m hungry. Got any snacks?”

Yaz takes a minute to respond at first, lips parted around a series of questions she somehow manages to hold back. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Brilliant,” Jemma quips, leaping up to her feet and sauntering through to her kitchen as though she owns the place. 

Half a pack of custard creams and a fair few nonsensical, one-sided conversations later, Jemma finally shows signs of sobering up. 

The headache comes first, hammering like a pulse during a marathon in the space behind her eyes. She drops her head to the cool worktop of Yaz’s dining table, grumbling when her body begins belatedly rejecting the drugs still in her system. 

“You okay, Jem?” Yaz whispers gently, and only when Jemma peeks up from behind her folded arms does she take in Yaz’s tired eyes and weighted eyelids. 

“I should go. I’m going to be death warmed up in the morning.” But when Jemma moves to stand, she stumbles, then slumps back into the chair with a groan. “God, my _ head.” _

“Please, stay just a little longer so you don’t pass out on your way home,” Yaz implores despite her initial apprehension, but then the blonde’s shocking words from earlier repeat at the back of her mind and she doesn’t want to risk Jemma bumping into her father again. “You do this a lot, then, huh?” she quips, already standing to seek out painkillers from her medicine cabinet. She has to admit to having bought an extra first aid kit recently. “Get high and break into peoples’ homes?”

“You’re the only one, actually,” Jemma mumbles as Yaz sits down at her side, sliding over a fresh glass of water and two painkillers. “And you can’t blame me for coming back when the hospitality is so good here.” 

Yaz has to give her credit — even when hurting, Jemma flirts like a university student on their first night out, interacting with any girl emitting a pulse. “Shut up and drink your water.” 

“I retract my earlier comment — this hospitality is absolutely awful.” Jemma scrunches her nose in teasing protest, dramatically raising the glass to her lips to drain it in one go.

“You should stay — _ could _ — you _ could _ stay, if you like. For the night, I mean,” Yaz suggests after a few minutes of comfortable silence, save for the rain now battering against the windows. 

“God, if my father knew about this,” Jemma whispers more to herself than Yaz, biting back details she really ought not to reveal. She’s already told her so much, _ too much, _than her job permits. “I really should head home.”

“Well, _ I’m _ going to head to bed, so it’s up to you if you want to stay or go.” Yaz slips from her chair, popping her brows in question before she pads towards her room. 

Footsteps echo after her own within seconds, and with a chuckle, Yaz regards the blonde at her bedroom door. In her pink jumper and ashen state, she looks a lot smaller than usual. 

Out of the familiar environment of alleyways and shadows, Jemma herself feels a little disorientated and vulnerable. She isn’t used to this. 

“Here, you can borrow some pyjamas.” A pair of plaid bottoms and a pale grey t-shirt are offered in Jemma’s direction, which she accepts with a wordless nod. 

“I won’t look,” Yaz quips as though they haven’t already crashed and burned together in soft moans and pleasured gasps on multiple occasions already. 

“I’m pretty sure I might’ve revealed enough to you already this evening,” Jemma cringes as she thinks back to drug-induced confidence and a dampened blouse. 

Yaz doesn’t miss the double meaning behind her words, offering up a knowing, warm smile before she slips into her bed. She distracts herself with her phone while Jemma changes, but she can’t hold back a glance when she starts hopping on one foot with the effort of peeling tight black jeans down her slim legs. “Need a hand?”

“You wish,” Jemma scoffs, maneuvring plaid bottoms along her thighs and gasping when she finds they include pockets. “Pockets! I can never find a pair with pockets. These are brilliant.” And then she pauses, cheeks pinkening, because Jemma Smith is cool and suave and sultry, not the type to wax poetic about borrowed pyjama bottoms with pockets of all things. With a sinking sensation, Jemma realises she’s losing her touch. “I mean — that’s probably just the drugs talking.”

“Oh, yeah. Mm, totally,” Yaz murmurs sleepily, peeling back the covers and shuffling up to make room. “C’mon.”

When she slips in beside her, instinctively Jemma winds an arm around her midsection, fingertips inching beneath Yaz’s sleep shirt to span her stomach while her head nestles under her chin to plant hot kisses against her neck. 

“Jemma,” Yaz whispers, hand finding hers beneath the sheets, dragging it away despite the way her body reacts. “I’m sorry — I’m really tired, okay? Can we just — can we just sleep?” 

The blonde woman pauses, edging between the line of wanting to take control and simply work her feminine wiles on her, or giving in. 

Taking into account the way Yaz’s eyes keep fluttering shut, then refusing to open, she gives in. “Sure we can, yeah.” She peels her hand away, rolling onto her back with a soft exhale. 

Ten seconds after Yaz turns the light off, strong but shy fingers interweave with Jemma’s in the darkness, and a soft kiss melts against secure bandages. “Goodnight, Jemma.”

Jemma’s thick swallow is audible for miles, and under the protective disguise of the dark, she just might shift closer, breathing a sigh against her shoulder. 

It’s strange, really, how safety doesn’t always mean the authoritative protection of powerful folk, or the added preparation of wearing a bulletproof vest when you’re up against a gang of men using the internet to fill their most disturbing and immoral of fantasies and enough ammunition to relieve half a city of its residents.

Sometimes, Jemma ponders, breathing in the scent of honey with added_ Yaz, — _sometimes it’s just a case of holding someone’s hand in the sombre and the silence of a night fuelled by emotional consequence. 

That is until slumber hits and the terrors come.


	7. the salt of your waves (that I can't stop sipping)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!

The bed groans beneath her with a sudden jolt of movement at her side, followed by a muffled, restrained gasp and the beginnings of muted cries. 

Yaz blinks in and out of consciousness with each shaky inhale and exhale from the form sharing her bed, but eventually, she realises it isn’t leftover audio from her dreams. She turns, alert and suddenly wide awake, to find the blonde at her side sat up with her knees tucked to her chest. 

Wary not to frighten her in the dark, Yaz shifts loudly enough to give her knowledge of her wakefulness. “Jemma? You okay?”

Through fragments of cold comments from children she’d seen as friends almost twenty years prior, then the once warm, kind nature of a tall, dark-haired figure serving as her knight in shining armour she now regretfully calls father, Jemma shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she whispers, choking on emotion which, before they met, would never even begin its journey to the surface. 

When Yaz reaches out to touch a hand to Jemma’s shoulder, tentative, light, Jemma flinches like she’s been burnt. Yaz’s hand retracts to fall back to her side. Going by the puffiness around her eyes, even in the dim light, Yaz can tell what’s caused her current state. “Bad dream?”

“I’m not a child,” Jemma scoffs, raising her head to shoot Yaz a frown, even if there’s a tear clinging to her top lip. “Go back to sleep,” she commands waveringly, awash with a fresh wave of reluctant reminiscence. Images flash at the forefront of her mind, making her thread her fingers through her hair to graze her nails over her scalp and dissipate them elsewhere. She can hear the tear of stitches in her palm even before crimson starts spreading from the source, seeping through the bandages and making her gasp. “Ah, fuck.”

“Jemma,” Yaz pleads, but when she dodges out of the way of every one of her advances, she slumps back against the bed with a sigh. The curse makes her flinch, as does the way she bolts to her feet and grips at her hand. “Jemma, what’s wrong?” 

“Might need your first aid kit,” she admits dejectedly, keeping swelling blood from seeping into Yaz’s cream carpet. 

“Christ, Jemma.” Yaz slips from the sheets and rounds to her side, taking one glance at her hand before she swallows thickly. “Bathroom, now. I’ll grab the kit.”

Surprisingly, Jemma follows her orders and pads into the neighbouring bathroom, rubbing tired eyes with her uninjured hand before she works to untangle the mess of sodden bandages. Her hand is under the cool tap and Jemma is biting hard into her bottom lip by the time Yaz arrives, small briefcase in hand. 

Yaz softens slightly at the sight, settling the case on the closed toilet lid and opening it up. “What do you ne—”

“Got a needle and suture material in there?” Jemma replies as though she’s been in this position thousands of times before, and Yaz wonders idly if she really has. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Yaz quips, but there’s concern in her tone. She slips a small, sealed packet from one of the case’s many pockets and then digs a sterilised needle from another. She sets them besides the sink and glances over Jemma’s hand. “Wait — did you have those stitches done in a hospital?”

“God, no. I did them myself,” Jemma scoffs as though the application and professional appearance of her injuries aren’t impressive in the least. 

“Seriously?” Yaz balks, taken aback. “They’re nurse-standard, Jemma. Sure you’re not an undercover doctor on the side?” 

The indirect compliment makes Jemma chuckle. She flexes her fingertips with a wince once she’s slipped her hand from under the stream of water, a beed of blood seeping out from where a stitch has torn loose. Before she can hesitate, she plucks the offending disposable material from its confines and drops it into the bin at her feet. “Thanks — tricks of the trade, really. Plus my younger self totally wanted to be a doctor one day.”

“Really?” Yaz asks meekly a second later, feeling helpless and frankly a little queasy. Nevertheless, she can’t keep herself from watching on. Plus, if distracting her means getting to know her better, Yaz won’t ever stop asking questions. 

“Funny how things turn out, huh?” Jemma jokes, reaching for the needle after peeling open the package of sutures. “Can’t be a doctor if I kill people for a living, surprisingly enough.”

Despite the sarcasm in her tone, Yaz can sense the undercurrent of regret there. She slips the thread through the needle when Jemma struggles, handing it over with a frown. “You sure you don’t want to numb it first?” 

“Better to just get it over and done with,” Jemma counters, taking a steadying inhale before the needle penetrates her skin and she bites down into her bottom lip to hold back a whimper. 

Yaz keeps quiet while Jemma gets to work, pulling the thread taut with a gasp before she winds it through the next slice of frayed flesh. 

“God, I think I’d rather you ask me interfering questions than stay silent, babe,” Jemma murmurs through gritted teeth, washing away the blood when it becomes too concentrated to find the next intertwined loop. 

“When were you first introduced to the assassin world?” Yaz queries right off the bat, folding her arms as she watches her work through the bathroom mirror. 

“As soon as I was adopted into the leader of an underground organisation’s home,” Jemma answers truthfully, a mix of drugs still in her system, fatigue, and bitterness for her father making her reveal more and more of herself. She’s making herself more vulnerable with each earnest word, but at this point, she’s butchered her job anyway. 

Yaz doesn’t have a response to that right away, the corners of her lips drooping in an empathetic frown. She curses her features for being so expressive because suddenly Jemma meets her gaze through the mirror with a grimace. 

“Don’t pity me, Yaz. It’s not a sob story — I had food and shelter and social interaction, with the exception of a job I enjoy,” she implores firmly, robotically, as though her father has the words engrained onto the canvas behind her eyes. “Could be worse — I could be on the streets, begging for money,” she adds, continuing her work. “And I can’t sing, so I’d be a rubbish busker."

“You can’t be as bad as my sister, Sonya,” Yaz replies, leaning against the nearest wall when sleep creeps back upon her. She’s surprised how open Jemma seems to be compared to usual, so she’d feel guilty if she didn’t offer any in return. Vulnerability comes in twos. “Perhaps you’d harmonise together perfectly.”

“You haven’t told anyone about this, have you? Our — whatever this is?” Jemma suddenly interrupts, setting the needle and sutures aside to reach for a fresh bandage. She steals her gaze in the mirror, a flash of something threatening in bloodshot green pupils. 

“Uh —” Yaz stammers, thinking back to her conversation with Ryan a mere day earlier. 

_ “Yaz, please tell me you’re not screwing her.” _

_ “I — it’s not — I’m —” Yaz stammers, because he’d just asked her  _ ** _directly_ ** _ and she’s never been good at lying.  _

_ “Yaz,” Ryan’s jaw slackens and he rubs at the back of his neck, “Oh my God,  _ ** _Yaz_ ** _ .” _

_ “I’m just trying to get closer to the case, predict her future attacks, get an official confession. It’s  _ ** _undercover work, _ ** _ Ryan. You have to believe me,” Yaz pleads, the chill in the air forcing her to curl her arms around herself, but her hands tremble for a different reason entirely.  _

_ Something visibly clicks in Ryan’s mind and he shoots her an accusatory glare. “It was her you were talking about before, wasn’t it? The girl you like? Oh,  _ ** _fuck_ ** _ , Yaz. She’s grooming you. She’s probably got you running in circles around her,” he shakes his head then, reaching out to grasp at her shoulders. “Yaz, she isn’t safe. You do realise that, right?” _

_ “Ryan, I’m not stupid,” Yaz bites, but it doesn’t hold much strength. “It’s —” _

_ “You’re  _ ** _literally _ ** _ sleeping with a murderer, Yaz — have you forgotten what you do for a living?” Ryan interrupts before Yaz can make any more excuses, offering up a look as if to say ‘explain that’.  _

_ “She’s not going to  _ ** _kill me_ ** _ , Ryan,” Yaz scoffs, because they’re too close now, they’re too involved. And Jemma doesn’t kill for no reason. “She only goes for the criminals we can’t catch,” she argues, but it’s futile.  _

_ “Can you hear yourself right now?” Ryan laughs, the alcohol in his system making him bold. “Break it off with her or I’m telling Noble.”  _

_ He’d stalked off, then, leaving Yaz cold and vulnerable and surrounded only by Jemma’s scent. _

Jemma is staring her down, now, bandages wrapped securely around her hand. She straightens up, predatory, scowling. “You told someone, didn’t you?”

When she’s like this, Yaz can’t predict her next move, so she swallows, shaking her head adamantly. “No, of course not,” she lies. “I’d lose my job.”

“Lucky for some,” Jemma scoffs, then, features relaxing. She zips up the first aid kit and slips bloodied cotton wool into the bin beneath the sink, then nods towards Yaz’s open bedroom door. “Back to bed?” 

Yaz yawns into her palm and nods, following after the blonde to switch the lights off in their wake. “You think you’re going to be able to sleep okay? You still haven’t told me what woke you up in the first place.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jemma murmurs, climbing beneath the sheets and settling in. She doesn’t peel Yaz’s side back, because she’s cool and unaffected and she definitely doesn’t care. “And I don’t remember the dream now anyway,” she lies, curling her uninjured hand around her pillow. It smells vaguely of coconut. 

“Just — wake me up if you need me, okay?” Yaz slips in beside her, shifting to lay on her side. “Night, Jemma.”

“Mm-hm, ditto,” Jemma mumbles, letting slumber wash over her and drag her under into its depths. 

When light falls over deep green sheets, illuminating sleeping forms until wakefulness eases through muscles and features once more, Jemma is the first to stir. There’s a dull throb to her palm and a stronger ache between her thighs, thanks to vivid dreams and the warm, solid form pressed to her side through the night. 

Peeling back the sheets, Jemma spares a glance towards Yaz’s sleeping form before she drags her pyjama top up over her flat stomach and smoothes a hand over the expanse of lightly toned skin. Her lashes flutter closed as she retraces the images from her dreams, restraining a needy sigh. 

Her head tips back at the first brush of fingers over the burning heat beneath her pyjama bottoms, a breathy moan slipping from her lips before she can stop it. 

Yaz shifts beside her at the sound, causing Jemma to freeze. 

Heavy-lidded eyes open, blinking once, twice, three times at Jemma’s dishevelled form before they widen in realisation. “Jemma — are you —”

“Good morning, babe,” Jemma drawls with a filthy smirk, surprisingly relaxed considering she’d literally been caught with her hand down her pants and only Yaz in her thoughts. 

When Yaz wets her lips, tilting her head to motion towards her half-hidden hand, Jemma shivers. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jemma purrs, settling back against the mattress. She draws slow circles against her clit until her thighs are trembling and her hips kick, needing more. 

Yaz is mesmerised, leaning in to sweep aside blonde locks and dot kisses along the jut of her collarbone. “Did you dream about me, Jemma?”

“Mm,” Jemma hums, the sound melting into a low whine when Yaz bites down. 

“What was I doing?” Yaz murmurs against her skin, observing the twitching of Jemma’s stomach muscles when she grazes her fingertips over the revealed skin there. 

“You —  _ fuck —” _ she gasps as she drags two fingers through damp heat, gathering slickness, then slowly sinks them past her core. “You had me pressed down against the bed and — ah — you were using a — and you were inside me.” Her words are broken and disjointed, alike her thoughts. 

Yaz muffles a moan against her skin, working to quell the desire burning in her own gut. She leans up, catching her earlobe between her teeth to order gently, “Jemma, pull your hands away and move onto your stomach.” 

“Wh — hhf, okay.” reluctantly, the blonde slips her hand from her pants and shifts until Yaz can hook a thigh over her hip and slot against her. 

Yaz doesn’t waste time before she slips a hand between them, smoothing over Jemma’s backside before it delves between her legs. They part instinctively, inviting her touch to the damp material at the apex of her thighs. “I don’t have a toy,  _ yet _ , but… just like this?” Yaz purrs, finally slipping her hand past the barrier between them and instantly applying pressure to her core. The tips of her fingers sink easily into welcoming warmth. The second Jemma begins relaxing around her, she starts up a series of deep, toe-curling thrusts. 

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” Jemma gasps into her pillow, resting her cheek against it while her arms curl and fist into the material. She whines when Yaz draws her fingers free only to circle her clit in firm strokes, her own hips encouraging her motions with slow rolls and grinds. 

“You feel so good,” Yaz whispers into the curve of her ear when she ducks down, using her free hand to swipe Jemma’s sleep-ruffled hair from her shoulders. Her lips leave searing kisses against her exposed shoulder blades until they reach puckered, ink-stained markings in the form of double digits at the top of her spine. “A tattoo? — Is thirteen your lucky number?”

Beneath her, Jemma ceases up, and instinctively Yaz pulls her hand back. 

Yaz tumbles back when Jemma hastily wriggles out from underneath her, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and quickly shrugging her hair over the back of her neck, covering the tattoo up. She adjusts her pyjama bottoms, settling them back over slim hips. 

“Jem?” Yaz crawls over the bed back towards her, fingertips gracing her elbow carefully. “Are you okay?” Then, quieter, voice laced with regret Jemma can’t bear to hear, “Did I hurt you?”

“No! No, you didn’t, you’re never anything but perfect, I just — just need a minute.” She takes a few calming breaths before she turns back to regard Yaz with the saddest smile she’s seen to date, pupils tinged with unfiltered turmoil. “See? Peachy.” Jemma turns back, then, reaching out to draw Yaz into a kiss. 

It’s an effort to distract her, though, and Yaz pulls back after a second. “Jemma, stop. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jemma mumbles like the stubborn woman she is, clinging to the guards she’s built around her heart. When Yaz doesn’t respond to her kisses, she hangs her head dejectedly. “I thought you wanted me.” 

“That’s not the — Jemma, that’s not the point here,” Yaz catches Jemma’s free hand, interlocking their fingers, but Jemma won’t meet her gaze, instead glaring holes into the bedsheets tousled around them. “Jemma, please look at me.”

But she doesn’t, she won’t, she can’t — because then she’d be able to see the way her bottom lip trembles and her eyes fill with tears and Jemma doesn’t think she’d be able to keep any of her walls in one piece any more. 

“Listen —” Yaz starts, but she doesn’t think about where the rest of her sentence is headed. Her heart fissures in her chest, protesting. Jemma is quite clearly hurting, but she doesn’t know what to do, and that frustrates her. “Fuck — Jemma, just — um, you can take a shower or something, I’ll give you some space — I can make us some breakfast? And — uh, yeah, just… I’m sorry.”

Silently, Jemma moves her lips to form a grateful ‘thank you’, then slips from the room with clenched fists and an audible swallow. 

When the sound of water hitting tiled shower floors and the central heating springing into action hits her ears, Yaz buries her head in her hands to recall the past five minutes of interaction.  _ Had she said something wrong? Was it the tattoo? Was she overwhelming her? _

She’s still fretting over Jemma’s sudden change in mood when Jemma slips from the bathroom ten minutes later, fully dressed in her black jeans and blouse, leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Her hair is still damp, towel-dried and slightly wavy. Upon closer inspection, her eyes are puffy and red. 

She crosses to her place at the breakfast bar with a smirk, a complete change from the state she was in earlier. “I smell like you. I reckon that’s as close to being a respectable police officer I’ll ever get.” 

“I’m sleeping with an assassin, Jemma. I’d hardly call that respectable,” Yaz quips, buttering a slice of toast. She’s yet to do the weekly food shop, so it turns out four slices of bread and half a bottle of milk are the only available ingredients for breakfast. 

“You reckon I could get their number? I just want to talk,” Jemma flirts openly, accepting the mug of steaming coffee Yaz offers with a kiss to her cheek which makes her flush. 

“You know, if you want to talk about what  _ just _ happened, you can,” Yaz quips, holding Jemma’s gaze even when she rolls her eyes in frustration. 

If she’d known Yaz would be this stubborn, she would’ve refused the target in the first place. 

“Was it your age — thirteen? When you were adopted?” Yaz ploughs on, ignoring the glares Jemma begins to send her and the way she fidgets under her piercing, steely gaze. 

Jemma groans, boot-clad foot colliding with the nearest piece of furniture. “No, it’s not,” she states with a shake of her head, planning out her words carefully. “It’s just a stupid work tag thing, alright? Can we stop talking about it now?” She slips a knife from its holder beside the fridge, catching Yaz’s breath in her throat before she leans across and… slices her toast in half. 

“Thank you — for telling me,” Yaz murmurs quietly, but she’s smiling now because Jemma’s opening up and she doesn’t feel so fruitless and dumb and insignificant. 

“This coffee is awful,” Jemma chides in earnest, offering up a smirk when Yaz frowns in dismay. It’s like they’re playing a game of tennis and the ball always falls into Jemma’s benefit. 

“So’s that tattoo — rubbish design and the lettering is all wobbly,” Yaz bites back, smiling wide, teeth bared. 

Something flashes behind Jemma’s eyes which she can’t quite decipher. “That’s what happens when you’re strapped to a metal table and forced to endure it at the age of ten, babe.” 

“Your father put you through that? He made a  _ ten year old _ suffer through that?” Yaz bites instantly, disgust wringing from each word. When Jemma baulks, realising she’d overshared for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours alone, Yaz transitions from disgust to seething anger. “I’m going to kill him.”

“That’s impossible,” Jemma states calmly, taking another sip of her coffee. She hones in on shuffling from Yaz’s front door, the hair at the back of her neck standing to attention. Smoothly, when Yaz isn’t looking, she sets her coffee down, slips a knife into the back of her slacks and adjusts her blouse accordingly. “I’ve already tried it.”

“You’ve wh—” Yaz starts, but then her front door clicks unlocked and footsteps echo through from outside. 

“Yaz, sweetie, are you home?” her mother’s familiar voice interrupts and disperses the tension in the room, and Jemma releases her hold on the cutlery tucked into her trousers when she sees Yaz’s expression soften. “I did call, but your phone must be de—  _ oh. Hello.”  _ Najia steps into the room, arms laden with grocery bags, and glances between her daughter and the stranger in intrigue. “Yaz, who’s this?” 

Yaz’s heart drops to her throat and she worries her bottom lip. 

Jemma simply smirks. 

“Mum, this is Jemma, an… acquaintance of mine from work,” Yaz informs her, drawing her sleeves over her hands and rocking on her toes. “Jemma, this is my mum, Najia.” 

“Yaz’s mum!” Jemma enthuses, and to Yaz’s shock, sweeps forward to divulge her mother in a squeezing hug. “It’s lovely to meet you!” 

There’s a flash of metal and Yaz registers, in horror, the largest and sharpest of her knives has found its place into the back of Jemma’s slacks, blouse tucked behind it to ensure it goes noticed by one set of eyes alone. 

She’s done this on purpose, Yaz can tell, as a defence mechanism for all the information she has shared with her. 

Karma glints with each motion Jemma makes. 

When Najia pulls back, flummoxed, her gaze is scrutinizing. “Are you two seeing each other?” 

“No —”

“Yes—” 

Both women answer in unison, Jemma’s smirk audible when she rounds to Yaz’s side and settles a hand at her lower back. “Yaz, babe, don’t be shy.” 

Najia folds her arms, raising both brows at her daughter, who just wants the floor to fall through and swallow her up. “Uh — yeah, we — sort of — are.”

“I only came around to drop off some groceries, but this is an interesting turn of events,” Najia notes like the cat who got the cream, hands on her hips. 

“I can put these away for you while you catch-up, if you like?” Jemma motions to the shopping bags on Yaz’s worktop, popping her brows. 

“Sure — yeah, thanks. Watch your hand, though,” Yaz warns, then turns back to her mum in preparation for a round of interrogation. 

“So, where did you two meet?” 

_ At the scene of a murder, mum. One of Jemma’s, actually. She’s an assassin, you see.  _ Yaz wants to say, but of course, that might just send alarm bells off in her mother’s head — just a little. 

Based on the way Jemma fabricates a detailed story involving an uncontrollable trolley, a stacked display of toilet paper and strong arms pulling her away at the last minute, Yaz can tell she’s done this before. She wonders just how many times. 

By the time her mum has to leave, Jemma’s charming conversation following her to the door, Yaz is almost absorbed into their fantasy world too. 

The minute the door clicks shut, Yaz reaches out to brush her hand against Jemma’s hip in mild suggestion, waiting until she turns with a heady smirk before it her hand slips around to her backside and squeezes. 

“Well,  _ hello,”  _ Jemma purrs, leaning in to capture her lips. 

But, at the last minute, Yaz’s hand inches up to grasp at the hand of the knife still tucked behind her, drawing it out with a firm-set frown. “Don’t do that again.” 

Jemma giggles like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin, pressing a kiss to the corner of Yaz’s lips. “Your mum’s lovely, I wouldn’t have hurt a hair on her head.” 

Yaz leads the way back into the kitchen to return the knife to its rightful place, turning when Jemma clears her throat from just behind her. She has teleportation powers, Yaz concludes. 

“I should probably go now,” Jemma hums, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Yaz’s ear, then trace her fingertips over her jaw. But she shows no signs of leaving when she leans in to press her lips to her neck, closing in on her when Yaz sighs. 

Yaz swallows, the movement occurring beneath Jemma’s tongue. 

When Jemma presses closer, slipping a thigh between her own and biting down against her throat, Yaz can’t hold back any longer. 

“Ryan knows,” Yaz states, hands on Jemma’s shoulders where they clutch at the material. 

Against her, Jemma stills, then draws back. Her charming smirk has disappeared entirely. Her pupils widen. “Who’s Ryan?” Her voice is calm, too calm. 

“My co-worker,” Yaz responds swiftly, unable to meet her gaze until strong hands force it upon her. 

“Oh, so  _ you’re  _ the reason I’ve been suspended? You said you didn’t tell anyone, Yaz,” Jemma finally bites, shaking her head in disappointment Yaz can’t bear to witness. 

“I panicked,” Yaz argues weakly, reaching out to touch her forearm.”And he figured out by himself, Jemma, I didn’t  _ tell _ him.” 

Jemma flinches out of her touch and reels back, pulling on her discarded leather jacket. “I’m going.” 

“Jemma,” Yaz starts, but it’s fruitless. Jemma’s already headed for the door in a blur of dark leather and blonde locks. 

“No, you don’t get a say in this.” She swings open the door, storming through. When it catches behind her, she turns with a snarl, but her features flash with panic. She’s a lightning storm with no control over where she strikes next. “Stay away from me — it’s for your own good, believe me.” Her commands are more like pleads now, so Yaz withers, drawing back. 

The door clicks shut and Yaz slumps against its wooden surface with a groan. How is she meant to come back from this?

* * *

Jemma wakes the next day to foggy thoughts and a yearning in her gut she’d been trained to ignore. She knocks a wine glass from her nightstand as she rolls over, groaning when the beginnings of a hangover throb at her temples and render her throat dry and parched. 

Changing into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, then sweeping half her hair into a bun, Jemma slips from her apartment to jog in the direction of the company headquarters. 

Engraved in curling script in the corner of the door, T.A.R.D.I.S lays unobserved. Aboveground, all those who pass see Enrico’s Pizzeria, not the secrets which lie beneath. 

She takes the corrugated iron steps two by two until a scan of her uninjured palm opens the sliding doors before her. 

“Thought you were suspended, mate?” Bill, a new, enthusiastic recruit quips from her place at the small shooting range on her right. They’d gotten along like siblings since she’d joined a year earlier. 

Jemma rolls her eyes, bandaged hand flipping her off with barely a wince. “Doesn’t mean I can’t come and train.”

“Aw, yeah. Must be harder to keep in shape once you’ve reached your age,” Bill teases, gun still in hand. “Might break a hip.”

“Get back to your water pistol practice.” Jemma sweeps her desk for her pass, then slips through the door to the gym with a flick of her wrist. 

There’s music blasting in her ears as she takes her frustration out on a polyester punching bag minutes later, sweat forcing blonde hairs to stick to the back of her neck and temples. Her injured hand is tucked behind her back and she bounces on her toes between each swing of toned arms. 

“Thirteen.” 

She hears the deep gravelly tone of her father’s voice through the padding beneath her feet before she turns to regard him, plucking a headphone from her ear. “Yes, father?” she pants, instinctively straightening up despite the protesting in her gut. She should’ve eaten something before she left. 

“What are you doing here?” he questions, arms folding over his expensive pinstripe suit. 

“Gardening,” Jemma returns sarcastically, mopping her brow with her sleeve.

Scoffing, her father steps forward, adjusting his tie. His head tilts to the side, smirk returning. “Not spending time with Yasmin?” 

Jemma adjusts her stance, offering the punchbag another powerful swing before his words stop her in her tracks. The punch bag collides with her side and winds her faintly, but she gains back her composure in seconds — just like he’d taught her. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, I saw you leaving yesterday morning. Have a nice sleepover, dear?” His thick Scottish accent is stronger when he’s being snide and smug. He reaches up, tousling short, fluffy curls, the majority grey. 

“Must’ve been someone else,” she mumbles, but he can see right through her. 

“Oh?” he’s smiling now, wide and sadistic and a little feral. “You wouldn’t be interested to know that she didn’t turn up to work today, then?” 

Suddenly, all the colour drains from Jemma’s face and her knees turn to jelly, but it’s not due to her lack of sustenance. She swallows the sudden lump in her throat, heart racing beneath her ribs, but not through exertion. “No,” she whispers. “Why would I care?”

Her hands tremble in the wake of her father’s laughter. “That’s right. Remember what happened last time, thirteen?”

That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back, leaving Jemma silently gasping for breath. 

He can tell his words are working because her shoulders shift with each inhale of much-needed oxygen. He reaches out, patting her back with a strong, capable hand. It’s a little too rough to be affectionate, and only increases her need for air.

When he leaves, the door slipping gently closed behind her, Jemma falls to her knees with a shuddering gasp, sweat mingling with anxious heat and making her boil over. 

Twenty minutes later, hoping,  _ needing _ desperately to call her father’s bluff, Jemma sprints up the steps to Yaz’s flat and careens into her front door with all her might. 

“Yaz?” she calls, padding through the hallway and into her ransacked, dishevelled kitchen. It’s as though a bomb has hit the room, sending utensils and chairs and plates smashing to the floor and drawers left open in disarray.

More worryingly, though, is the dribble of blood on the corner of the countertop which drips and pools on the floor beneath, and the distinct quietness to the flat. 

“ _ Yaz?”  _ she quips again, more desperate this time, as she jogs through to her bedroom, then the bathroom, then the spare room she appears to use as an office. 

Silence falls around her like a dead weight.   
  



	8. you need a villain, give me a name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!!!
> 
> tw: violence!!

“Ryan? PC Ryan Sinclair?” Her false accent is strong — American. The blonde raps at the window of the police vehicle, a scenario bound to have her in even more trouble than she’s already in. There’s no wriggle room, no space for thought. She’s in too deep to climb the ladder out. 

_ But all she can think about is Yaz. _

“Hey, chill out. Who are you?” He slips from the car with a frown painting his lips and confusion furrowing his brow. The almost feral look in her green eyes is what unnerves him first, then the slight tremble to her hands. “Ma’am, are you alright? And —“ he pauses, tilting his head. “How do you know my name?”

“Friend of Yaz’s. Listen — have you seen her today?” Jemma implores impatiently, rocking on her toes. 

“No, she didn’t turn up today, but apparently her dad rang — said she had the flu or something,” Ryan indulges, frowning suddenly, unsure. “Why? Has something happened?” 

“Fuck,” Jemma steps back, rubbing a hand over her face before she slips it through her hair. Her accent wavers momentarily. “He wasn’t bluffing.” 

“Wait —“ Ryan takes in the short blonde locks framing her face, albeit messily, then the strong jaw and cheekbones, then her piercing eyes. “You’re her. Oh, _ fuck. _ You’re _ her.” _

Jemma gulps, then, stepping back, readying herself to run. “Who?”

Ryan steps forward, though, even though she can tell he’s already out of his usual depth. He reaches for his handcuffs, earning a scoff. _ Seriously? Right now? _

“Ma’am, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder,” he reaches for her uninjured hand, but she draws herself back. 

“Ryan, no — listen, Ryan, she’s been taken. Arresting me right now is going to almost definitely lead to her death. You really want to risk that?” Jemma pleads, dodging each lunge he makes with practised ease. “Ryan, _ please.” _Her accent dissipates — there’s no point acting now. 

_ “Taken? _ What do you mean?” Ryan stops, startled. “Mate, what’s _ happened?” _

“Don’t have time to explain. You can arrest me for whatever you’re accusing me of once I’ve got her back, okay?” She starts walking backwards, leaving Ryan lost and torn. 

“You mean she’s been kidnapped? What the _ fuck? _I warned her — I told her to stay away from you. Where is she? I bet you know.” Ryan reaches for his radio. “I should call this in.” 

But then Jemma launches forward, snatching the device from his chest and tossing it into the nearest dustbin. “Don’t even _ think _ about it, Ryan. Do you _ want _ her dead?” 

Ryan gasps in surprise, gaze flicking between her and the bin opposite, where the radio clatters and splits to pieces. “Is there _ anything _ I can do? And that was totally unnecessary, by the way.” 

“Keep an eye out for her; that’s all you can do. Oh, and do _ not _ mention this to anyone. They’ll shoot her down the second you even think about it,” Jemma answers in earnest, bouncing on her toes before she disappears down the alleyway opposite with a quick wave. “Nice to finally meet you, mate!” 

Ryan blinks and she’s gone. 

* * *

Jemma returns to Yaz’s flat if only for the comfort in its familiarity, picking through dishevelled kitchen utensils and cutlery for any hints or pointers towards her disappearance. A mug lays smashed on her tiled floor, coffee dried and staining the dense material. 

All at once, her phone thrums with life and Jemma scrambles for it. 

With a gasp, she reads and re-reads the caller ID until the letters jumble, then taps the screen to answer the call. “Yaz?” she whispers down the line, panic rising in her chest when all she hears is shallow, shaky breaths. “_ Yaz?" _

“Jemma,” Yaz murmurs finally, voice wavering with emotion. Even through the phone, Jemma can tell she’s trembling. “Jemma, please —”

“Yaz, where are you?” Jemma begins pacing around the kitchen, weathered boots falling hard against the floorboards while she adjusts the lapels of her blazer. And then something clicks and she reaches for the laptop discarded on Yaz’s couch. She flips it open and connects her phone to the USB port with ease, grunting under her breath when it requests a password.

All the while, there’s shuffling on the other end of the line, then a voice which makes Jemma freeze. “Jemma,” he rasps, a smirk in his voice. “Long time, no see, huh, sis?” 

“Jack,” Jemma replies, equal measures surprised and hurt, “You need to let her go. She has no part in this.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re _ wrong, _ Jemma. She has _ every _ part in this,” Jack counters, and in the background, a thump resonates, followed by a muffled whimper. “For every minute you’re not here, another bruise may add to the pile. Come and save your damsel from her tower, prince charming.”

Jemma squirms at the sounds of shaky breaths and quiet cries, taking her first guess at her password; 1234. 

It works. Jemma types and draws code to the screen and types and types until her location is traced to an abandoned warehouse just outside the city. Her father always was one for the theatrics. “_ Jack. _ Let her _ go. _ Since when were you on father’s side rather than mine?”

The phone shifts again, but Jack remains on the line — _ since my husband and child were put on the line for this, _he wants to say, hands beginning to tremble, but instead — “See you soon, sis.” 

The line falls dead and Jemma sprints from the flat. She hot-wires the motorbike sitting outside when no cabs pull over within five minutes, settling astride the vehicle before she sends it careening down the street. 

It takes less than ten minutes for her to reach the large industrial estate, where she dumps the motorbike, reaches for a container of oil, then the lighter from her pocket, and smoothly sets it alight. The blaze gathers enough attention for two armed guards from the company to jog over and inspect, all the while Jemma remains hidden around the corner of the nearest warehouse. From her place, two perfectly-aimed shots ring out, rendering them lifeless within seconds. 

Stepping out from the shadows, Jemma rounds the next building, honing in on the signal. Her steps are light and cautious, green eyes scanning her surroundings desperately for the slightest of movement. 

There’s a small raucous in the next building along, the doors open, windows missing through age and weather. Jemma gathers herself, slipping a silver ring onto her thumb which, engraved neatly in Latin along its band, reads _ consolatio. _ She presses a kiss to the cool material, then pads forward with the pride of a lioness after a kill. The two further guards at the door are shot down without a second thought. 

“Thirteen! How wonderful of you to join us. Such a polite entrance!” her father’s voice croons from the centre of the warehouse, where two standard guards are rooted to the spot each side of Yaz’s dishevelled, hunched figure while her father looms before her. Jemma steps over corrugated iron at the doorway and is quickly captured by strong arms and a familiar scent. “But now, It’s time for the final round.”

“Just go along with it, for now, Jemma,” Jack whispers mutedly in her ear while their father steps over to Yaz, lifting her chin from her chest. Her right eye is painted pink and purple, while the left side of her jaw is bright red, as though the injury only happened five minutes ago. Her bottom lip is bloodied and swollen and blood dribbles from the cut there the instant she raises her head. Her natural curls are matted with blood from a gash to her hairline. 

When Jemma is close enough, pretending to struggle against her brother’s hold, her heart leaps to the back of her throat and she gasps. “What have you done to her?”

“Only what we feel she deserves. Relationships are not good for special people like you, Jemma. You should have learnt from what happened last time — what happened to Rose,” her father reminds her, the words enough to flood her memories of exchanged whispers before a family dinner, a solid plan, the disguise of cyanide and purposefully mixed wine glasses. 

In the wake of her previous plan to rid herself of her father, she’d buried her last flame — an enchanting, bubbly blonde cursed with her father’s sinister priorities and left to rot beneath the ground with so many years left in her. 

In fury, both for who she lost that day and the potential for a repeat occurrence, Jemma swings her elbow into her brother’s stomach and reaches for the gun in her back pocket. She aims it squarely at her father’s smiling face, cocking the mechanism with an echoing click. “Don’t you dare. You have _ no right _to say her name.” 

“You’ve always been into amateur dramatics, haven’t you?” her father chuckles, stepping closer, testing her courage. 

Winded, but not beaten, Jack captures her in his hold once more, strong arms forcing the pistol from her hands. She struggles against him, kicking out and squirming, but nevertheless, the gun clatters to the floor at her father’s feet. 

“Shit,” Jemma curses, because now he’s picking it up, and he’s positively _ beaming _ when he lifts the barrel to the trembling, speechless Yaz. “No, no, no, _ no.” _

“I’m going to pull the trigger on this gun, thirteen, and you’re going to watch,” he drawls. 

“_ Wait —” _Jemma struggles against her brother’s hold, biting back a growl. “You really want to see me suffer? Let me do it. Let me pull the trigger.” 

Her father scoffs, swinging the gun around as though it’s a toy. 

From the corner of her eye, Jemma sees Yaz’s head turn in her direction. She can’t bear to look, because she’ll understand in the end, even if she’s angry now. 

“What, and let you turn it on me again?” He counters, chortling. 

Jemma jerks from Jack’s hold once more, but it’s useless. “I’m sure golden boy here will keep me from doing anything stupid, father.”

“You see? That’s why he’s always been my favourite,” Harold beams, catching the indignation in Jemma’s eyes with a pleased hum. Nevertheless, the gun falls to his side while he contemplates. “What do I get out of this?"

Jemma scoffs. “She’ll be dead, won’t she? What more could you possibly want?” 

“If I give this back, and you have the pleasure of sending a bullet into her skull, you’re also promising to hand yourself in afterwards,” he proposes, glancing idly towards the weak police officer who only has eyes for the torn blonde despite her fragile state. “God, do it quickly, I can’t stand the way she looks at you.” 

And he hands it over, blind to the way Jemma begins smiling. She twists her ring around her thumb, slipping from her brother’s hold when he eases up intentionally. 

This time, when she raises the gun, it feels heavier — she figures it must be the weight of those these next few minutes rely on. 

“You’re still going down for this, thirteen. There’s no escaping a lifetime in jail for you,” Harold murmurs snidely, glancing between the two women in feigned interest. He folds his arms over his sleek tux.

“Why is it that you didn’t arrest me on the spot when I first came to you, Yaz?” Jemma queries casually to the woman trembling in her crooked chair, tugging at the restraints with a pleading look in her eyes. 

“There was something odd about the evidence at the scene. Nobody else listened to me, but something didn’t match up,” Yaz replies, her response muffled by her swollen lip and the angry-looking graze across her cheek. “Your shoe size — a bloke’s size ten.”

“Anything else, babe?” Jemma’s smirk is sadistic and smug. Yaz’s lips lift to match it in no time at all, catching onto her plan. 

“Oh, yeah. I looked through all the DNA collected on the day and a white male, mid-sixties, called Harold Smith matched every single print. There was even a piece of his hair on the body. Quite a chunk, actually,” 

Her father’s face falls and he surges forward at Yaz, but, to everyone’s surprise, Jack is the one to haul him back, standing stronger and taller than him. “You _ framed _ me? Your own father?”

“You’re no father to me,” Jemma turns, the gun moving with her. She raises it to the space just below his temple, then pulls the trigger. 

He slumps to the ground with a glare in emerald green eyes and a satisfying thump. The gun is dropped unceremoniously at his side. 

Behind her, Yaz gasps when the unfamiliar echo rings in her ears, then the egomaniacal man falls. 

She comes back around properly to assured hands fumbling and loosening her restraints, touches gentle and careful when they peel ropes away from torn and bruised wrists.

“Christ, Yaz,” Jemma murmurs, reaching out to guide Yaz to her feet in wobbly, unsteady movements. “I’m so sorry.” 

When Yaz sinks against her, knees giving way, Jemma’s there to catch her. She barely takes in what’s happening, catching the tail-ends of hushed whispers and the wonderful pressure of Jemma against her again, her own voice having seemingly escaped her. 

So, when Yaz senses movement to her right where her head rests against Jemma’s shoulder, she doesn’t have the time or energy to react, to warn her, to stop the path of the bullet heading straight for Jemma’s side from the dying man slumped against the ground.

Her father heaves his last breaths at the same time Jemma cries out in unrestrained agony, hot crimson seeping through her brilliant white shirt. 


	9. just take a breath, love (fill your lungs up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the penultimate chapter is here!! thanks for all the support so far!!
> 
> a special thanks to @yasminkhxns for helping me out with this chapter!!!
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> tw: gore

“Jemma? Oh my God_ , Jemma.” _Yaz curls her arm around the blonde’s waist only to find moisture seeping through the sleeve of her blouse in a slow, oozing stream. The blonde slumps against her with a groan, knees giving way beneath her, offering Yaz no choice but to gently lay her down on the cold ground so she can assess the damage. Just below her ribcage on her right lays a small wound, but blood seeps from it in a steady current. Her white shirt is already half-drenched. 

“Yasmin, we don’t have time. People would have heard the gunshots, the police are probably on their way. We need to get her to the base,” Jack informs her urgently, but worry laces his furrowed brow even as he reaches for a canister of petrol and jogs between the bodies laying still around them. When Yaz regards him in question through her panic, he rolls his eyes. “No one is allowed to know we were here, and I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve left a hell of a lot of evidence. Now get her out before this place goes up in flames.”

Yaz peels her blouse off to bunch up and press against the wound firmly. Jemma cries out, but when Yaz moves one of her hands to take over, she doesn’t hesitate to retain its hold. “Keep pressure on it for me, okay? Now c’mon, I’ve got you,” Yaz encourages, reaching out to lift one of Jemma’s arms around her neck and prop her against her side. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Good riddance, arsehole,” Jemma quips through gritted teeth when they pass her father, leaning heavily into Yaz’s hold. She stumbles when a wave of agony plagues at her nerves but manages to right herself with a weak smile. She can’t bear to look up; can’t bear to see the sorrowful look on Yaz’s face; can’t bear to see the damage her adoptive father inflicted upon her delicate features. 

So when she does, her heart fissures into a million pieces. 

The minute they slip outside, neither women have to look back to know what’s happening inside the warehouse, the stench of burning, blackening flesh answering any curiosities they may have. 

Jack jogs out after them, slipping a lighter into his pocket and performing as a faux-bodyguard for the injured parties. 

Yaz grunts when Jemma’s head falls to her shoulder, a pained grimace resting against her collar. “Hey, hey, stay awake, okay?” 

“M’fine, shh,” Jemma mumbles, fingers curling into Yaz’s blouse in a squeeze meant to be reassuring, but it’s a little too weak. 

Yaz turns to regard the tall, handsome bloke following them out into the industrial estate. “Jack, we need an ambulance.”

“Can’t risk it. We just need a —” he jogs a few steps forward to glance into a half-empty car lot. “ — car. Perfect.” So he heads over, hot-wiring the nearest car with expert hands. 

Yaz takes a moment to think of the act in a new context, getting momentarily lost in a whirl of morals. “You know, I really should be arresting you for that.”

“You’re in a relationship with an assassin,” Jack states by way of answering, glancing between the two women and catching her off-guard. 

“We’re not — It’s not —” Yaz stammers, a scoff melting against her neck. 

“Leave her alone, Jack,” Jemma drawls, smirking despite the pain racking her body. 

“Glad to see you’re still with us, sis,” Jack counters, unlocking and opening the driver’s side door with a click. “In you get.”

Yaz carefully maneuvers Jemma into the back seat, laying her down before she slips in the other side and lifts her head to rest comfortably in her lap. She reaches out when Jemma inhales harshly, replacing her hand in applying pressure to the wound. “How are you doing?”

“Peachy,” Jemma murmurs, the sarcasm dripping from her words not dissimilar to the crimson quickly coating Yaz’s palm. “Quick as you can, please, Jack.” 

When Yaz glances down, she notices the crease between Jemma’s brows and the way her fingers tremble where they clutch her bloodstained shirt. Her cheeks are flushed and her pupils glossy, lashes turning heavier with each bump and turn of the car. 

“Hey, try and keep your eyes open for me, Jemma,” Yaz implores softly, pleadingly, gently tapping her fingertips against her high cheekbones until Jemma nods silently, piercing green settling on the gash still damp with blood against Yaz’s hairline. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner,” Jemma whispers to Yaz and Yaz only, the words hardly shaping her dry lips. She raises a rouge-tinted hand to the space below her still blossoming black eye, unknowingly smudging blood over the skin there. “You’re hurt.”

“Says the woman who basically risked their life to protect mine,” Yaz chides, expression sour when her improv bandage appears soaked through. She worries at her bottom lip, momentarily forgetting its swollen, split nature. Blood drips lazily onto her floral blouse. 

They pull up outside what Yaz presumes is their company headquarters in record time. Jack doesn’t waste time, scooping Jemma into his arms as though she’s as light as a feather. 

Yaz is surprised when instead of a large, secure building, a simple pizzeria sits ahead, sending Jack a confused frown until they head inside and immediately descend down a spiral staircase. The basement opens out into a huge expanse of desks and closed-off rooms and rows of CCTV spanning the city centre and — a shooting range?

They’re ushered into the medical room by a dark-skinned woman in a long white coat, her name label reading _ Dr. Martha Jones. _

“What have we got this time, Jemma?” the doctor asks as Jemma is settled on the bed, offering up a groan in response at the shift in position. 

“She was shot,” Yaz informs her meekly, stepping warily into police-mode. “Bullet’s still inside. No exit wound.” 

“Thank you, Miss Khan,” Martha replies, stepping around the bed to find the correct apparatus. She doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, something Yaz finds concerning. She also already somehow knows her name, which is enough to leave her on edge. Martha slips on a pair of blue gloves and tentatively pulls back Jemma’s shirt, removing her hand from her side so the wound pulses blood freely. She glances up, then, entirely focused. “Jack— gas and air, please.” 

“Yaz,” Jemma croaks towards the lost looking form standing too far from her side for her liking. Her uninjured hand twitches, fingers parting, awaiting counterparts to weave around. In an instant, the dark-haired woman is at her side, digits interlinking. 

“You okay?” Yaz squeezes her fingers as a mask is settled into place over her mouth and nose, but she still makes out her next words. 

“It burns,” Jemma whispers, her grip tight around Yaz’s hand. The minute Martha begins the extraction, she ceases up with a muffled cry. The gas and air have barely kicked in yet, but there’s no point wasting time, she guesses. 

“Shit,” Martha mutters under her breath, using a utensil to keep the impacted skin apart so she can explore in search of the metal bullet. Blood oozes, Jemma’s breaths rocketing. “It’s fragmented inside. This might take a while.” 

Yaz refuses to let herself glance south, instead focused entirely on Jemma’s grimacing features. Within seconds, though, she can see the change in her, the gas and air working its magic. 

Jemma’s lashes flutter and there’s a dull throb in her side she takes no notice of, because suddenly she’s giddy and Yaz is right at her side with only eyes for her and she can’t hold back her laughter. 

“There she goes,” Jack chortles, keeping an eye on Martha’s work as though examining her skill. If anyone is going to treat his sister, they have to be excellent at their job. “Who’s the prime minister, sis?” 

“Yasmin Khan,” Jemma giggles, idly squeezing at her hand. Her gaze doesn’t leave her, even if everything has begun moving in slow motion behind her eyes. 

Jack’s laughter is amused and snide, and he adds it to the list of things to tease her about once she’s back from cloud nine. 

Martha dislodges the largest segments first, dropping them into a metal pallet at her side. 

“You’re really pretty, but I like someone else,” Jemma murmurs as though half-drunk to the woman beside her, fingertips tracing over the back of her hand. “Her name’s Yaz.”

“I don’t think your pride is going to survive a hit this hard,” Yaz can’t help but giggle along with her, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her eyes when Jemma glares at it in annoyance instead of bothering to lift her own hand. 

Martha continues her job, nicking her flesh in her search for more fractures of metal and making Jemma cry out, eyes watering, toes curling in heeled boots. Her grip tightens once more. 

“Jemma? Jemma, are you okay?” Yaz takes in her features, then the lack of condensation lacing the inside of her mask. “If you want it to work, you have to _ breathe it in, _Jemma. You’re holding your breath.” 

“I got scared,” Jemma admits, finally exhaling through her mouth and fogging up the clear material. Her cheeks flush. “Distract me.”

“We’re around people, I can’t —” Yaz starts, lips curling upwards in amusement. 

“Not like _ that,” _Jemma snorts, eyes widening. 

“What’s your favourite position in be—” Jack starts, but is smoothly interrupted by the young police officer. 

“Karaoke! What’s your favourite karaoke song?” Yaz quips, shooting Jack a glare he returns with a smirk. 

“_ Yellow _by Coldplay,” Jemma murmurs without thinking, taking another long inhale. “I could probably sing you a snippet sometime.” 

“Don’t — don’t let her, Yasmin,” Jack warns fondly, reaching out to pat Jemma’s shoulder. 

“Oh — and on top, always, Jack,” Jemma drawls, deadpan. Beside her, Yaz chokes on air amidst the chorus of Jack’s laughter. 

“The last piece is pretty deep, so you might feel this, sorry. Take some deep breaths, Jemma,” Martha interrupts her dazed state, and instantly, Jemma looks up to Yaz with an exaggerated pout. 

“I’ve got you,” Yaz murmurs, leaning against the side of the bed and pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “You’re fine, you’ll be okay. It’s almost done.”

“You’ve got me,” Jemma repeats drunkenly, taking a few steadying breaths before the intrusion of apparatus and the sudden pressure on her side makes her squirm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. _O__w.” _

Yaz curls her free hand around Jemma’s cheek, accepting the cool flannel Jack quickly fetches when she notices the sweat building above her brow. She dabs at her clammy skin, her heart giving way to aches and throbs when she takes in her fluttering lashes and chattering teeth. Her hand has a vice-like grip on her own. “It’s almost done, Jemma, you’re okay.”

The last fragment of solid metal drops into the palet with a satisfying clink, and relieved sighs melt in unison. 

Yaz drops a kiss to the salty skin of her temple, then draws back when Martha starts patching her up, sealing the clean wound up with stitches. Blood continues to dribble down her side while she works, the trail of crimson a stark contrast against her pale skin. 

Jack watches on in fascination at their interactions, the dopey but smitten smile on his sister’s lips a sure sign of the bond they share even after such a short time knowing each other. It’s a foreign sight compared to her usual unaffected, uncaring attitude. 

“Jack?” There’s a knock at the door to the medical room, and immediately he turns, jogging to the door with a beaming grin. His husband steps through with a relieved sigh, wrapping him up in his arms in an instant. “Thank _ God _ you’re okay, I’ve been worried sick.” 

“I’m going to inject some sedative so she doesn’t move around too much for the next few hours and her body can heal better in the long run,” Martha informs Yaz, breaking her attention away from the reunited couple in the doorway and drawing it back to the blonde at her side. “I’ll give her some painkillers, too,” she adds when Jemma winces at the last few stitches. 

“Right, yeah, of course,” she murmurs, mopping at Jemma’s brow once more when she groans in discomfort. The mask has been removed, so she’s dealing with the pain on her own now, and frankly, Yaz is a little worried by her quiet demeanour. “Is she going to be okay?”

“‘Course. As good as new,” Martha states as though it’s fact, lifting her left arm to map out her veins and insert a needle, flooding her senses with a dimmed down version of wakefulness. 

There’s a pleasant numbness to her limbs when Jemma squeezes Yaz’s hand in reassurance, cool palms fixing a gauze over her puckered flesh once the drugs are in her system. 

Yaz flinches at the sight of thin metal slipping into her pale skin, turning to focus on the faint flush to Jemma’s cheeks and her glossy eyes instead. “You look high as a kite, Jem.”

The blonde breathes a laugh, but the movement makes her wince. “Keep talking, s’nice.”

“I’d take your chance and ask her more questions while you can, Yaz,” Jack teases from across the room, arm slung around his husband’s waist. “Oh, this is Ianto, by the way. Ianto, this is my sister’s girlfriend, Yaz.”

“_ Jack, _ we’re _ not —” _Yaz gives up when she spots the smug look dancing in Jack’s eyes, figuring her argument is pointless. 

“Dear sister of mine, why didn’t you kill Yaz the second you two first met?” he proposes without hesitation, leaving Yaz momentarily breathless. 

She turns to study Jemma’s features as they crease and shift into faint confusion. “She’s too good. I don’t kill good people.” She takes a breath, then, the sound catching and wavering when a light sting catches her off-guard. “And she’s pretty. That would be like graffitiing the best art in the gallery,” she drawls with a filthy smirk, fingertips tracing over the inside of Yaz’s wrist. 

Both men snort from the doorway. 

Yaz laughs, shooting Jemma a fond roll of her eyes. “You’re terrible.”

“You like it,” Jemma hums, eyelids drooping with every slow, cat-like blink. “Keep going.”

“What’s your favourite biscuit?” Yaz proposes, tilting her head.

Jack sighs. “Boring.”

“Shut up, Jack,” Jemma snaps playfully, eyes widening in contemplation. She wets her lips when she finds her answer. “Custard creams! Of course! I _ love _ custard creams, Yaz. They’re delicious. Nothing can top them.” Then something flashes across her dilated pupils, something Yaz usually associated with the hasty removal of clothing and the pressure of lips on lips. “Although, in terms of _ taste, _they might have some competition.”

Yaz clears her throat and flushes scarlet, her gaze boring lasers into the linen sheets Martha settles over Jemma’s form. “How quick does the sedative take over?”

A flurry of laughter greets her response, Jemma’s the loudest. “Babe, don’t worry, I love you just as much as a packet of biscuits.” 

“Wait, you lo—” 

“They’re the perfect ratio of biscuit and filling, Yaz,” Jemma continues, speech slurring, lashes fluttering. “And —” she yawns, fighting the fatigue which leaves her muscles pleasantly numb. “ — and they’re just crumbly enough.” 

“Hey, hey, shh. Relax,” Yaz murmurs softly, drawing circles into the back of her hand to coax slumber sooner. 

“Stay,” Jemma whispers before her breaths even out and she finally begins to sink under the spell of drugs and exhaustion, her hold loosening around Yaz’s within minutes. 

“Looks like you could do with a check-over too,” Martha prompts politely, capturing her attention and breaking her out of her distracted state. 

Yaz lifts her gaze, bewildered, to find pain returning to her features and scalp. It’s as though she forgot. “I’m fine,” she dismisses her politely, but when she moves to straighten back up, dizziness leaves her wobbly on her feet. 

“Yaz, let her take a look at you,” Jack orders gently, wondering over to glance over his sister’s vulnerable state like the caring brother he secretly is. “You know Jemma would want you to be in one piece.” 

“Not necessarily,” Yaz murmurs in earnest, biting back a frown. She sinks into the chair Martha drags over nonetheless. 

“Yaz, honey, the fact that you’re alive in the first place is enough to mean she cares about you,” Jack counters, hands on his hips. 

“He’s right,” Ianto adds shyly, hand on the doorknob. 

“That’s bias, babe,” Jack flirts openly, and even though they’re married and raising a child together, it doesn’t stop Ianto from blushing. “We’ll leave you to it, alright? Just shout if you need me, okay? We’ll be just outside, working on how to sort this mess out.” Jack leads them both from the room with a smile which Yaz hopes is approving. 

“Now, let’s clear up all this blood and see what we’re dealing with, shall we?” the young doctor quips, reaching into the drawers at her side for antiseptic and sutures. 

Half an hour later, stitched and suitably cleaned up with painkillers for her thumping headache, Yaz takes the hand Jemma has left, palm open, beside her pillow. She sinks against the side of the bed, resting her bruised cheek against her folded arms and tracing her name over and over Jemma’s palm. 

She’s spelling out a confession of sorts, three hours later, when the clock on the wall ticks ten minutes past twelve in the morning and her mind has stopped whirling with the day’s events. She finds solace in the steady rise and fall of Jemma’s chest, and the gentle drumbeat she finds on the inside of her wrist, but she can’t risk sleeping. Just in case. 

“You look shattered,” Jack breaks her train of thought and casts it to the dust at the back of her mind. She lifts her head, vision a touch blurry around the edges. 

“Ta,” she murmurs sarcastically. The pads of her fingertips have ceased their efforts against her palm and the blonde notices right away, but doesn’t give up her stance just yet.

“It’ll take more than a bullet wound to knock her back, Yaz,” Jack whispers as though he can read her mind. Yaz’s shoulders relax under the weight of inexperience. 

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy seeing her suffer, though,” Yaz admits quietly. In the back of her mind, she thinks she feels Jemma’s hand tightening in her own. When she turns to check, though, she seems as still as she has been all evening. 

“You can say that again,” Jack says, rubbing a hand over his face. His suit is tousled and his tie is loose around his neck, the top few buttons undone. He looks stressed. 

“Shit, of course, she’s your sister — sorry,” Yaz apologises, guilt weighing heavy on her chest not for the first time today. 

“No need to apologise. We’re bonded in blood, but I’ve barely seen her in the last few years. I’m definitely not the best big brother there is,” Jack chuckles, the sound self-deprecating and sour on his lips. 

“You’re here now — that’s what counts,” Yaz shrugs, meeting Jack’s gaze to smile in earnest. “She never talks about herself to me, I’m still trying to work this whole thing out.”

Jack studies her curiously from the other side of Jemma’s bed, noting Yaz’s gentle honesty and openly caring nature compared to his sister’s sharp edges and reticent habits. “That’s our Jemma. It’ll take time, but she’ll come around in the end.” 

“Did you manage to figure out a plan for what to do next?” Yaz changes the topic, because she’s still unsure and torn and a little overwhelmed, and she doesn’t quite want to cry in front of him. 

“Yes, actually — but we’re going to need your help.” Jack slips a file from the inside pocket of his coat, handing it over. When Yaz moves to open it, he stops her gently. “Better to read it once you’ve got some rest. There’s some vital information in there, I don’t want you glossing over it.”

Yaz goes to argue her corner, to tell him off for belittling her, but a yawn stops her in her tracks and she simply nods silently. At her side, the bed shifts.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Jack whispers before he slips from the room once more. 

The door clicks shut and Jemma blinks into the near-darkness of the room, giving a faint grumble. “Yaz?”

“Jemma? Hey, how are you feeling?” Yaz turns, letting Jemma renavigate her hand to her wrist. 

“Sore, but okay. S’bit cold in here, too.” There’s a lilt to her tone and her bandaged hand settles in the space beside her, patting lightly. “Fancy warming me up?”

“Jemma, you’re injured, there’s no _ way _ we’re having sex right no—”

“Yaz, shut up. You’re tired, I’m tired and cold —” She motions to the bed again, grumpy in her discomfort. “Just get in and hold me, okay?” 

“Charming.” She slips in anyway, letting Jemma manoeuvre herself into a comfortable position before she slinks an arm just below her hips and breathes a sigh against their shared pillow. 

Jemma turns her head, settling on her good side, a cool nose nestling in against Yaz’s neck. She finds comfort in her scent, which filters through her senses with the addition of antiseptic. “Are you okay?” she asks for the first time that day and Yaz’s bottom lip trembles with realisation. 

“Not really, no,” Yaz replies mutedly, taking a shaky inhale. She’s tired and overwhelmed and stressed and her head warns her of another oncoming headache. 

“I’d be worried if you were,” Jemma whispers, reaching out to catch the first tear to tumble over Yaz’s swollen chek. The movement is so tender it only works to encourage more. “Let it out, babe.”

"It's just been _a lot _today, and —" Yaz swallows against the lump in her throat, catching her trembling bottom lip between her teeth. “What is _ this, _Jemma?” She motions to the lack of space between them, the way their bodies fit against each other as though they've been doing this for years. 

“‘I don’t know,” Jemma replies, fighting emotion Yaz has no difficulties displaying. “But I don’t want to lose it — to lose you, so —” she pauses, mustering her courage. “You reckon we can figure it out as we go along?”

“I think I’d like that, yeah,” Yaz notes, but there’s still worry in her tone. 

“I’m quitting, by the way,” Jemma murmurs a minute later, a hot tear melting against Yaz’s neck. But when she turns to glance down, Jemma shakes her head in refusal. She’s not ready to be seen at her most vulnerable yet. “This life isn’t for me. It never has been.” 

“What do you want to do?” Yaz reaches up with her free hand, gliding her fingers through her hair. 

“Self-defence always needs teaching,” Jemma answers shyly, hopefully, cheeks warming against Yaz’s skin. 

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Yaz replies with as much enthusiasm as she can muster from the edge of slumber, a smile lifting her lips. They’re going to be okay. They’re going to make it out alright. 

* * *

Having left Jemma at her flat to recover, Yaz turns up to work the next day in better spirits, a file tucked under her arm as she strolls confidently into Chief Inspector Noble’s office. Three raps on the door and a quick _ come in! _later, Yaz settles the file on her desk. “Harold Smith, ma’am.”

“Pardon, Yaz?”

“He’s our killer.”  



	10. crawl into my heart (take me apart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter!! and it's pure filth!!! what! a! surprise! 
> 
> honestly though thank you all for following along with this absolute brainfuzz it was a joy to write (most of the time) and a step out of my comfort zone!! 
> 
> enjoy! 
> 
> thank u @prettyyoungking for helping me with this chapter and for betaing!

It’s been two months, three weeks and four days. Two months, three weeks and four days since she’d laid her hands upon Jemma’s half-naked form until sighs melted to shivers and she’d mapped out each inch of skin beneath her clothes. Christ — she hadn’t even seen her in all her glory yet. 

And, while finishing off her paperwork for the day and slotting it into its rightful place, that’s all Yaz can think about. 

After changing out of her uniform and back into her civilian attires, Yaz slips her phone from her bag and taps the ‘call’ button beneath Jemma’s name. 

It connects on the third ring. 

“S’up, babe?” Jemma drawls through the receiver. Yaz can hear her stretching with a wavering exhale. 

“Did you _ just _ wake up?” Yaz chides playfully, leaning against her locker and toying at her sleeve with her free hand. 

“... maybe,” Jemma hums, voice gravelly with sleep. 

“It’s one in the afternoon!”

“And I have no job to get to — your point, _ mum?” _ Jemma snorts. There’s a rustle before her mobile is relocated and the trickle of water echoes down the line. “And now I’m pissing. Would you like a step-by-step description of everything I do?” 

“You need a coffee,” Yaz grumbles, slipping her coat on, then her rucksack. 

“I’m on the toilet.” 

“Oh my _ God, _you’re infuriating.” 

Laughter rings through the line from Jemma’s end and Yaz softens. 

“Any reason for this call, babe? I mean — I _ love _ hearing your voice as soon as I wake up, but you usually have a point. Or a complaint — or a command,” Jemma drawls as though she’s bored, setting her phone aside when she moves to wash her hands. 

“I just want to see you,” Yaz counters in earnest, cheeks warming. “You reckon you could come over this evening? For dinner? And then maybe, like — stay the night?” 

“Yasmin Khan,” Jemma starts, and Yaz can _ hear _ the smirk in her tone. “Is this a booty call?”

“Jemma!” Yaz gasps, but the more she thinks about it, the more panicked she finds herself. “It’s — it’s not like _ that. _ Well — I mean, it _ is, _but —” Jemma laughs at the other end of the line, momentarily distracting her. It’s a wonderful sound — she can hardly be blamed. “That isn’t my main motive.”

“Babe, relax. I’d love to come,” Jemma responds smugly, her tone shifting to something akin to liquid lust. “Pun fully intended.”

“_ Jemma,” _ Yaz sighs, but it melts into a laugh when the blonde scoffs. “I’ll see you at seven, alright?”

“Laters, baby,” Jemma purrs in return, peeling away each item of clothing while she sets the shower on full blast.

“See you later,” Yaz hums, tapping her thumb over the _ end call _ button and slipping free from work restraints for the rest of the day. She’s grateful for working heating and cool sheets when she returns to her flat, slipping between patterned green covers to catch up on the sleep her nightshift stole from her grasp. 

By the time five o’clock rolls around, hunger drags her from heavy slumber with a dull throb in her gut. She showers to wake herself up properly, then slinks into the kitchen to nibble at a piece of toast and sip occasionally at her coffee. 

Yaz is watching the flickering flames of candles littered over her dining table when a resounding thump on her balcony captures her attention, then the following four raps against the adjoining glass door. 

She rolls her eyes as she makes her way over, peeling back thin curtains to meet Jemma’s smirking expression. She slides open the door and can’t restrain her laughter when she spots the single rose captured and secured between Jemma’s teeth. “Ever heard of using the staircase, babe?”

“But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Jemma recites, rocking forward to loop an arm around Yaz’s waist. Abruptly, she slips the other arm around her shoulders and dips her forward. 

“Jemma, what are you — _ Jemma!” _Yaz exclaims in a high pitched tone, clutching at the lapels of Jemma’s leather jacket. “Put me down, or I swear to—”

But when Jemma loosens her hold with a challenging smirk, raising her brows as if to say _ are you sure, _Yaz squeals, scrabbling for purchase. “Wait! I take it back!”

“Getting mixed signals here, babe,” Jemma drawls around the stem of her rose, which Yaz plucks from between her teeth when her hold re-secures. She leans in, nudging her nose along Yaz’s, which is warm in the chill of an early winter evening. Her own is a little pink and cold from the short walk, eliciting a sharp shiver from Yaz’s flummoxed form.

“Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged,” Jemma whispers in a tone which should be downright _ illegal _in Yaz’s opinion, flames licking at her gut when their lips finally meet. 

It’s fleeting and not _ enough, _so when Jemma guides her back to a solid stance with surprising care, Yaz drags her into another, firmer kiss. 

Jemma hums her surprise against her lips but responds in kind anyway. 

Kissing Yasmin Khan is always different, always changing, but nevertheless, she’s hooked. 

When she has Jemma successfully pressed against the balcony railings two minutes later, hot, impassioned kisses melting against her lips, a candlelit dinner is the last thing on Yaz’s mind. She curls her fingers into the material of her black t-shirt, then inches them around from her hip to her backside through light brown culottes. 

“Yaz,” Jemma breathes against her lips, pulling back to meet her gaze through darkened pupils. She swallows heavily, the action followed by Yaz’s similarly dilated hues. “If we keep going, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back from having you right here, right now.”

Yaz rests her forehead against Jemma’s, taking in the flush to her cheeks and the waves of heat emanating from her body with a breathy sigh. “Sorry, it’s just — fuck, it’s been so long. Too long.” Yaz gives a faint squeeze with the hand curled around her hip, unable to draw her own away. “Right. Dinner — Let’s — let’s do dinner, yeah?” 

Jemma is the first to draw away, but she reaches for Yaz’s hand when she leads the way inside. At the door, though, Yaz turns, arching an authoritative brow. “One more Romeo and Juliet quote and you’re not getting any dessert.” 

“What’s for dessert?” Jemma quips, weighing up her options with a charming smile. “Is it worth it?”

Yaz simply lifts her brows and wets her lips by way of answer, lashes fluttering. 

Jemma nods in slow understanding. “Understood, ma’am, loud and clear. No more Shakespeare.” 

When Yaz laughs, Jemma releases a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She perches down on the couch, converse-clad feet coming to rest on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. “How was work?”

“Not too bad,” Yaz replies, rooting through her fridge for the ingredients to make a stir fry. “Got offered a promotion, but I didn’t take it.” 

At the opposite side of the room, Jemma deflates, gaze dropping to her rainbow laces. “Why?”

“It just didn’t feel right — with the whole —-” 

“Because of me?” Jemma tilts her head, voice quiet. 

“Jemma, don’t,” Yaz spins, regarding her with a stern look. “It’s not your fault. There would’ve been too many hours anyway. I’d have no life other than work, and it’s already stressful enough.” 

When the blonde doesn’t respond, Yaz’s chest begins to ache, so she fetches a chopping board and sets it alongside a couple of peppers. “Fancy giving me a hand with this, Jem?”

“Of course,” Jemma slips from her perch and sidles up to the counter, plucking a knife from its holder and getting to work. There’s a precision to her actions which has Yaz entranced, movements fluid and practised. When she notices eyes on her, Jemma breathes a scoff through her nose. “I used to cook for Jack and I when father was away. Developed a hobby out of it, actually.”

Yaz nods, empathy radiating from the soft smile she offers. It disarms Jemma a little more each time she’s laid victim to it. “What’s your favourite meal to cook?”

“Well, I can make a _ mean _ roast dinner, according to my brother,” Jemma boasts, brushing past Yaz to continue onto the next ingredient. They move like a well-oiled machine, the simmering heat between them kept well-stoked with brushing limbs, stolen glances and reverent touches. 

“You’ll have to prove it sometime.” Yaz quips, turning the gas on to start frying the first few items of veg before dipping into the fridge. While she’s glancing through her selection of drinks, Jemma takes over with the cooking. “What would you like to drink?” she asks, already knowing the answer. 

“The usual,” Jemma smirks, catching Yaz by her belt loop when she passes to fetch a glass if only to press a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Thanks, babe.” 

“Happy to support your wine addiction, Jem,” Yaz teases, drawing back so she can keep her distracting proximity at bay. 

“It’s _ not — _listen, wine is the ultimate drink. All the others are boring and un-winey.”

“Did you just say _ un-winey?” _

“You’re really testing my patience here, Yaz.”

The younger woman breaks into unfiltered laughter, to which Jemma’s pout weakens into a smile. 

They continue this way through until they’re finally sat down at the table, digging into their food with muffled hums. 

Their comfortable silence is broken only by the occasional sound of cutlery brushing bowls and Jemma’s frequent theatrical _ slurps _ of noodles. 

“You’re a child,” Yaz comments, earning a grin from the woman opposite while her mouth’s still full. “Oh my _ god. _ Why am I even dating you?”

“No idea, babe,” Jemma muffles, then snorts at the glare she receives. She swallows her food down and sits back, full. “Although I never usually hear you complaining about my mouth.” 

Yaz simply rolls her eyes, but when Jemma lifts a finger to wipe at the corners of her mouth, then slip between her lips, she finds she isn’t hungry anymore — for food, at least. 

Oblivious, or acting extremely well, Jemma slips her fingers free with a resounding pop, then lifts her gaze to Yaz’s own. “You okay, Yaz? Looks like you’re miles away.”

“Mm? Oh, I’m fine,” Yaz murmurs distractedly, slipping from her chair as if to clear the table. 

“Hey, no — let me.” Jemma stands, scooping up both bowls and sets of cutlery before Yaz can argue. “You cooked, I’ll wash up.” 

“How domestic,” Yaz teases, leaning in to blow out the vanilla-scented candles while Jemma sets the tap running and hums quietly to herself. 

Yaz takes in the sight with a tilt of her head, loitering at the dining table for a few more seconds before she rounds to the form at her sink. 

Jemma’s cleaning out the second bowl when she senses a presence behind her, then warm palms settling on her hips and even warmer lips pressing against the curve of her neck in a firm, intentional caress. Jemma’s hand slips, the bowl falling into the sink with a splash which dampens her blouse. “Shit.”

“Language, Jem,” Yaz purrs, nudging her blonde locks aside in a move reminiscent of their first intimate interactions. Her teeth graze the skin just below her ear and Jemma utterly melts against her, a breathy sigh slipping from her tongue. “Oh,” Yaz hums, pressing another kiss there. “Sensitive spot, huh?” 

“Yaz,” Jemma sighs her name like a prayer, curling her hands around the counter, body tense, but yielding beneath her touch. She’s coiled like a spring. When she moves to turn around, though, Yaz’s grip on her hips tightens. “_ Yaz, _I want to see you.” 

Yaz swallows a hum at her words, stepping forward to slot against her properly. The proximity makes both of them heave a breath. “Say please.”

Jemma’s knuckles are white when Yaz bites down against receptive flesh in warning, a filthy noise climbing up her throat. “Yaz, please.” She’s too soft. Her father was right. 

“Good,” Yaz praises, nudging her hips to get her to face her properly. The minute she does, however, it doesn’t take long until it’s _ Yaz _ who’s pressed against the counter, her complains dying when Jemma captures her lips in a heated, hungry kiss. 

They mould against each other in an instant, and Yaz breathes a sigh into Jemma’s mouth when she bites into her bottom lip. “It’s been too long,” Jemma repeats her counterpart’s words from earlier when they stop for breath, then ducks her head to mouth at her pulse point. “God, I want you.” 

“Babe — fuck, _ Jemma _ —” Yaz moans when Jemma sinks her teeth into her skin with enough muster to bruise, stars appearing behind her eyes. “Bedroom, _ please.” _

“Make me,” Jemma growls, ensuring the flesh is red enough for her liking before she meets her steely gaze. 

“Where do you think the toy’s hidden?” Yaz prompts, leaning in to purr the words against her earlobe, which she promptly swipes her tongue over. 

“Fuck — you _ actually _bought it?” Jemma all but rasps, suddenly finding herself breathless. In her distracted state, Yaz nods, grabs her hand, and drags her from the kitchen. 

The second Jemma steps through her bedroom door, Yaz discards of her leather jacket and tugs her towards the bed. 

Yaz’s back hits the mattress with a faint wheeze. Jemma crawls on after her with a smirk, like a child on Christmas morning _ finally _ given permission to unwrap their presents. She captures her gaze at the same time as she curls her hand around the hem of her jumper, inching it upwards. “Off, please.”

Yaz arches her back to sweep the material over her head, tossing it aside carelessly. 

Jemma’s smirk broadens, even if her gaze has dropped to her plain black bra. “And the rest.”

“As you wish,” Yaz hums, leaning on her elbows so she can reach behind her, unclip her bra, and lay back. 

Taking incentive, Jemma peels the garment from her chest and casts it aside. The sight she finds beneath is enough to make her keen quietly, but as she leans in to put her mouth to good use, a hand on her shoulder stops her. 

“Even it out, first,” Yaz orders, wetting her lips. “It’s only fair.”

Impatient, Jemma sits up between her legs, unbuttoning and flaying her shirt open to lazily drop over the side of the bed. She meets her gaze when she unclasps her pale pink bra, a soft detail on the body of one so bold and capable. She lets it fall to the sheets beside her before she leans in again, slotting their hips together. “Happy now?”

“Stop talking,” Yaz purrs, curling a hand around her neck to drag her into a kiss. The first brush of breasts makes them both gasp in unison, and Jemma shucks her hips in a testing movement against Yaz’s while her tongue invades her mouth. 

Their kisses increase in ferocity and eagerness until they’re both panting and breathless and grinding against each other like horny teenagers in a hidden corner at a party. 

“Jemma,” Yaz starts, but her words teeter off into a moan when Jemma pulls back to duck her head and finally, _ finally _ press her lips to tanned swells. She flicks her tongue over a soft peak, gaze drifting up in challenge. “Oh, — fuck, don’t stop.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Jemma croons against her, a hand venturing down her toned stomach and abdomen to toy with the fly of her jeans. When Yaz doesn’t respond, she dances her fingers over the fabric until she reaches the warmth centring between her thighs, applying pressure there with two fingers. 

Yaz all but jumps at the contact, hips bucking into the pressure while Jemma lathers attention to her chest. 

“You’re beautiful,” Jemma murmurs honestly, moving to her other breast and using her own hips to apply more pressure against her core through layers of clothing. “I can’t wait to touch you properly,” she continues when she hears Yaz moan above her, the sound deep and needy. “Would you like that, Yaz?” 

Yaz sees stars when Jemma grazes her teeth over her nipple at the same time as she rubs a firm, slow circle against her, words failing her. 

So, breathing hotly against her swollen peak, Jemma glances up. “Yaz?”

“God, yes, _ please,” _Yaz whines, hips raising in open invitation. 

Jemma sighs at the desperate tone to her voice, her own arousal burning to the surface at earthquake-inducing extents. But she’s wanted to do this for so long that she’s not risking anything. She makes easy work of her fly, sitting back on her knees to peel them away. She takes a shaky inhale at the dampened patch gracing Yaz’s plain grey underwear, the smirk on her counterpart’s face making it clear as day that her colour choice was intentional. “Christ.”

“It’s Yaz, actually,” Yaz hums, but when Jemma fixes her with a heady look, pupils dark enough to be considered eclipses, her breath catches in her throat and her hips squirm. 

Jemma wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue, reaching between them to pluck at the lacy waistband of her underwear. “I want to feel you, Yaz. Properly this time — I want to take my time, map every inch of you.” She presses a kiss to the space between her breasts, then the freckle dusting the skin just above her belly button, her gaze so affectionate it takes Yaz by surprise. “Please let me?” 

“Please,” Yaz nods, swift, eager. She shivers the minute Jemma discards of her underwear, the chill in the air raising goosebumps. 

Re-adjusting to settle back between her legs again, straddling one of her thighs, Jemma leans in to swallow Yaz’s moans when her fingers finally venture into damp heat. They ghost over her clit, then press a little firmer, earning a jerk of Yaz’s hips and a yelp of surprise. “Harder or lighter, babe?”

“That — fuck, that’s just right,” Yaz whispers breathlessly against her, curling a hand into her hair while the other fists into the sheets at her side.

Jemma starts a pattern of firm little circles against her clit, lapping her tongue into her mouth until Yaz has to pull back to gasp and pant against her jaw, their foreheads resting against each other. 

“Good,” Yaz breathes a minute later when Jemma moves her thumb to her clit to replace her fingers, which edge towards her core. 

A single word really shouldn’t affect her so much, but then again, every day with Yaz brings with it new information about herself she hadn’t even considered before. 

When she sinks a finger into welcoming heat, Yaz bites down against her shoulder with a relieved whine, moving her hand from her hair to scrawl her nails over her spine instead. “Oh my _ God.” _

She keeps her ministrations up against her clit while she all but wriggles her finger into her until her knuckle nudges her entrance. Then, slowly but surely, she works against her in a deep, goading rhythm. “You feel so good, Yaz.”

Yaz is all fluttering walls and trembly little rolls of her hips within minutes, coaxed by talented hands and encouraging words. 

“More, please,” she sighs, head tipping back, jaw slack. Her hips gain purchase, rocking against the intrusion, working herself up to her impending climax. “God, you’re so good.” 

Jemma teases a second finger past her entrance, drawing the other back so she can sink both inside in tandem. She rolls her hips against Yaz’s thigh in response to Yaz’s following groan, a dull throb settling between her legs. “Yaz?”

“Mm?” Yaz hums, thighs clenching around her thrusting fingers as she edges ever closer. “I’m — Jemma, I’m almost there.” 

“Brilliant,” Jemma whispers against the curve of her ear, shifting to press her lips to the lightly defined muscles of her stomach before she ducks further. 

Her thumb leaves her clit and Yaz whines at the loss, eyes closed, but when hot, burning lips and an eager tongue settle in its place, she almost comes undone right there and then. She cries out against her, fisting blonde locks between her fingers and giving a faint tug. “Jemma, _ Jemma _ — I’m going to —”

“I’ve got you, Yaz,” Jemma purrs against her, swirling her tongue in quick circles which quickly render her speechless. “Let go.” 

When she crests, Jemma is there to catch her, pinning squirming, twitching hips to the mattress so she can draw it out for as long as possible, then some. 

_ Then some _ covers the second orgasm she coaxes from her a mere minute later, languid strokes of her tongue leaving Yaz a trembling, panting picture of pure, unadulterated bliss. 

When she complains of oversensitivity, Jemma pulls back, crawling up to her side and slipping a leg between her own so she can capture her lips in a lazy, messy kiss. 

Yaz can taste herself on her lips, stomach muscles continuing to jump with tiny aftershocks. 

“Was that okay?” Jemma hums, pulling back to cup her cheek. 

“More than okay, Jem,” Yaz pants, slowly regaining her composure. 

Jemma wipes her other hand against her thigh, takes in Yaz’s sated, exhausted state, and wriggles free of her tan trousers and underwear to slip it between her own legs. 

“Jemma,” Yaz murmurs sternly the second Jemma inches a finger into her core, making her freeze. “What are you doing?”

“I was, uh, — you looked tired, so I didn’t want to presume. It’s okay, I can sort myself out,” Jemma stammers, swallowing at the authoritative glare in Yaz’s pupils. 

“Stop touching your clit and just go inside for me, okay?” Yaz commands, waiting until Jemma follows her instructions before she shifts, sitting up to glance through her drawer. 

Jemma’s eyes close while she sinks two fingers into herself, one knee raised so she can find the best angle. She sighs out a wavering exhale, toes curling. 

Yaz gets sidetracked by her display, the sated fire between her legs re-stoked in an instant. But she had something to retrieve, didn’t she? _ Did she? _ When her gaze flits over deep pink, she remembers.

A dip in the mattress at her side forces Jemma’s eyes open, and when she looks, the sight leaves her breathless. “Holy fuck.”

“Turn over,” Yaz purrs, wetting her lips. She adjusts the harness around her hips and sits up on her knees, leaving a bewildered and utterly turned on Jemma to shift onto her stomach, backside raised in anticipation.

Jemma sinks into the sheets with a sigh, lifting her knees slightly. She glances back, watching Yaz move and nestle between her legs. 

“Have you taken one of these before, Jem?” Yaz asks in quiet concern, settling a hand on Jemma’s hip while she slips the other between her soft thighs. “Because despite how hot you look like this, I really, _ really _don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I have,” Jemma drawls, muffling a groan when Yaz sinks two fingers easily past her entrance. “Just — go slow?”

“I think I can do that,” Yaz purrs, ensuring the toy is well-slickened before she lines up, grips her hips, and begins to push forward in a slow thrust which fills her to the hilt. 

Jemma presses her cheek into her pillow with a long-winded groan, curling her arms around the fabric while she accommodates the toy. 

As soon as Yaz’s hips meet Jemma’s backside, she releases a breath she’d been unknowingly holding. She pauses, giving Jemma ample time to relax around her girth. “Everything alright, Jem?”

“_ Fuck, _yeah,” Jemma slurs, giving a testing little wriggle against her. “S’good. You can start moving now.” 

Yaz takes a shaky inhale before she draws her hips back, almost entirely, before rolling them forward, the action making the toy brush her clit with each thrust. When Jemma groans, she does too, hunching forward with a blissful giggle. “Fuck, this is good.” 

“Tell me about it,” Jemma drawls, pressing back against her in a slow grind which Yaz captures in her mind and saves for evenings spent alone. 

It’s truly a sight to behold. With each gradually quickening thrust, Yaz watches the pink toy disappear between their bodies through blissful arousal. 

A sheen of sweat glistens above Jemma’s brow and in the twin dips at her lower back in no time, and she thinks she might be dribbling into her pillow, but she doesn’t care. All she can feel is the thrusting toy inside her and the way Yaz’s body moulds against her with each roll and grind. 

Just as she’s about to reach her peak, Yaz draws back entirely, heaving for oxygen. “Turn back around, Jemma.”

She’s too close to her orgasm to refuse, limbs trembling as she flops down on her back and spreads her thighs to accommodate the other woman. As soon as Yaz enters her again, hovering over her on her elbows, Jemma’s legs hook over her hips and squeeze. 

“You’re so hot like this, Jemma. If you could see yourself right now — holy fuck.” Yaz picks up her pace until she’s all but rutting against her, slipping a hand between them to rub desperately at Jemma’s clit. 

Digging her heels into Yaz’s backside, Jemma’s lips part on a guttural, filthy moan, neck muscles straining when her head tips back. The new angle leaves her filled in the best possible way, each snap of Yaz’s hips forward making her grip at her shoulders and back for dear life. Together with Yaz’s attention on her clit, she’s hurtling rapidly towards the edge. 

“I think I’m going to—” Jemma whimpers, red lines skirting Yaz’s shoulderblades. 

Yaz buries her face against the junction of her neck and shoulder, panting into the dip there while her hips buck and jerk against her own. She presses her fingers against her clit, hard, in a way she knows she loves. “Come for me, Jemma. _ Please _come for me.” 

Jemma comes hard with a shout of her name, squirming and writhing beneath her unfaltering form. She clings to her while she rides it out, unmoving until her limbs turn to jelly and she slumps back against dishevelled, sweat-stained sheets. 

She winces just slightly when Yaz pulls out, falling back into the bed beside her with a groan. Her thighs burn and they’re both in dire need of a shower, but for now, Jemma finds solace amongst their mingling gasps for breath and the occasional twitch of exercised muscles ringing with pleasure. 

“Well, that was something,” Yaz hums, lips moulding in an affectionate caress against her collarbone. 

“It was, yeah,” Jemma sighs, admiring the faint red lines gracing Yaz’s shoulderblades. They’re a helpful reminder of something she really should be bringing up, as a matter of urgency — but then Yaz’s fingertips ghost over the newest of her scars and she falls still against her. 

The flesh is pink and puckered where a bullet tore through her just months ago, and when Jemma freezes, meeting her gaze, she bites into her bottom lip. “Sorry! I was just curious, that’s all. I should’ve asked. God — sorry.”

But then, just as tentatively, Jemma lifts a hand to brush the pad of her finger over the thin white line gracing Yaz’s eyebrow, then her temple. Yaz sucks in a breath at the silent communication of trust she’s offering. “It’s okay. If it’s _ you, _I don’t mind. This okay for you?”

With a slow nod of understanding, Yaz’s lips curl into an unfiltered smile which screams affection. “Yeah, because it’s you.” 

Jemma returns her smile, because she’s in love and, though it’s scary, she doesn’t want to shy away from it any longer. Swallowing her pride, she sits up, hands fidgeting in her lap. “I want to show you something.”

Intrigued and frankly a little concerned, Yaz follows suit, sitting up with her legs crossed. 

When Jemma turns around, at first Yaz is confused, but then she reaches back to draw blonde locks away from her neck and she _ gasps. _

“Oh my God, Jemma,” Yaz whispers, biting back tears she can’t explain. She shuffles up to take a closer look at the once harsh reminder, brought back to life with the tip of a needle and a courageous attitude. 

The number thirteen is unrecognisable beneath the bolder swirls and defined lines of a lily. “It’s beautiful. I love it.” And then, when Jemma turns, tears glistening in her own eyes, Yaz finally comes to understand the tightness in her chest. “And I think I love you, too.”

Jemma’s brows knit for all of a second, disbelief replaced with awe, then enamourment. “‘Bout time you figured that one out, babe.”

“Don’t make me take it back,” Yaz warns, but she’s smiling because Jemma is smiling and when Jemma smiles, it’s like everything is suddenly alright with the world. 

“I wouldn’t dare.” When Jemma kisses her, she doesn’t build a barrier to keep tears and sentiments at bay, instead, she lets it crumble and dissipate until they can’t figure out who’s tears are who’s, but they’re fools in love, and, really, that’s all that matters. "And I love you too. Most of the time." 


	11. stepping stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soooooooooooooooo im back with another chapter because i missed these two so much!!! its a bit smutty but enjoy!
> 
> tw: violence, injuries

“That’s the interview finished, Miss Smith. Your CV is extremely impressive and you’re clearly experienced in fitness and self-defence,” a middle-aged man announces in the small, cramped office of a well-used gym. There’s a vein at his temple which Jemma has been eyeing curiously throughout the interview, blood pumping beneath the skin in a fascinating visual. “You’re more than qualified.”

“When can I start?” Jemma asks with a charming smile, head tilted. 

“I like your eagerness. It’s a rarity these days,” he replies — she thinks his name is Mickey? Or Mike? Wait — maybe it’s Jim? She’s torn from her pondering when he leans in, offering a hand. “You’re hired. You can start next Monday.” 

“Aw, mate. Thanks,” Jemma meets his palm with her own, countering his strong grip with an even stronger one just to see the surprise on his face. “I mean — thank you, sir. My girlfriend will be well-chuffed.” 

The last comment comes pointedly, but he seems to be a nice bloke, so she slips her hand away with a polite laugh, gathering her things to leave. “See you next week, boss.”

“I’ll get back to you with the rota, Miss Smith,” he stands, and only when Jemma shifts does she notice the small plaque in the corner of his desk —  _ Brett _ , of  _ course.  _

“ _ Please,  _ just call me Jemma,” Jemma returns, slipping her blazer over her shoulders and securing a scarf around her neck. It’s one of Yaz’s — the comforting scent of coconut and honey making her all the more eager to get back to her flat and share the good news. 

“See you, Jemma,” Brett replies, holding the door open for the blonde on her way out. 

There’s a skip to her step when she heads out into the early morning light, the chill in the air doing nothing to help the warmth in her stomach and fluttering behind her ribs. She imagines Yaz’s proud little smile when she announces her news, opting to take a shortcut behind a row of terrace houses in her eagerness to see it in the flesh. 

The footsteps echoing along the backstreet behind her don’t deter her at first, because it’s too early in the day for any prospective threats. 

She glances back, anyway, putting the noises down as a figment of her imagination when behind her, the cobble-stoned path is empty. “Huh.”

Jemma’s thoughts have returned to the woman living two blocks away when the footsteps start up again, their pace faster, as though someone’s running directly at her. 

Her pace doesn’t falter, expertly appearing oblivious. 

So, when she steps out of the way seconds before she predicts the individual to collide with her back, she watches the bulky figure stumble ahead. 

“Watch where you’re going, buddy,” Jemma chides politely, arching a slim brow. The man is in his mid-fifties, a scar lacing his eyebrow, and suddenly Jemma falls into recognition. 

“Remember me, little one?” her late father’s friend drawls, smirking, smug. “You’ve grown,” he adds, but there’s no warmth to the usually sentimental statement. 

“Come on. There’s no need for this,” Jemma sighs, throwing her arms out in exasperation. “What’s done is done.”

“I heard what happened to Harold,” he continues, ignoring her protests. He slips a coil of thin wire from his pocket because of  _ course _ he’s still bitter enough to remain in the business. “And I’m  _ sorry _ , but vengeance is sweet, Jemstone.” 

The nickname forces a strangled sort of noise from her throat and memories of her father to flood her mind. Jemma ponders over the contents of her rucksack, before resigning herself to the fact there are no plausible weapons inside. She hasn’t had to use any acts of violence since that fateful day over a year ago, so she hides her anxiety in the balled-up fists at her side, taking a step back for every one he takes towards her. “What’s the  _ point,  _ sir? He’s  _ gone.  _ Whatever praise you’re expecting for this  _ isn’t _ going to happen. He’s  _ dead _ .” 

“Say my name, Jemma. Just one last time,” the taller figure murmurs when the wall presses against Jemma’s back and he’s suddenly all around her. 

“Dave,” she starts, unblinking, pupils swelling with something akin to fear. She’s quick to disguise it, though, working hard to predict his next move. “Dave Ross,” she grits her teeth when the wire suddenly brushes her throat and the man chuckles. “Otherwise known as,” she adds, baring her teeth in a salacious grimace. “A dumb arsehole.”

When he hesitates, brows furrowing, she takes her chance to duck her head and bite down on the hand hovering at her neck, clenching her jaw until his hand jumps back and he yelps. 

There’s a pair of keys in her pocket, so in the milliseconds it takes him to react, she ploughs them into his side, then up to scrape along his cheek. “Please, you don’t need to do this.” 

But he shows no mercy, swinging his fist with enough force to split her lip and almost nudge her nose out of joint. “This is for your father.” 

“Let it  _ go! _ ” Jemma cries, catching the hand clutching at coiled metal in an effort to steal it from his grasp and toss it aside. Nothing good comes of such a weapon, and she’d very much like to keep her head atop her shoulders. Blood starts oozing in a slow stream from ner nose and bottom lip until the coppery taste refamiliarises itself with her tastebuds. She’d almost forgotten its metallic nature. “He’s  _ dead _ .”

“So it’s only fair for you to join him,” David counters breathlessly, age not on his side. 

“You’re  _ old _ now, uncle David.  _ Too _ old,” Jemma snarls, turning to sweep the other man’s arm behind his back with a resounding  _ click _ which leaves him shouting into the empty alleyway. She slips the coil from his hand with ease, curling the metal around his neck loosely, but enough to warn him. “I’m stronger than you. Don’t make me do this.” 

Blood soaks into the collar of his pristine suit from the gaping, key-shaped puncture to his cheek, the surrounding skin already swelling. He’s panting, pulse racing beneath the increasing pressure of coiled copper. “Do it, Jemma. Prove to me you’re just like him.”

His words force Jemma’s breath to catch in her throat and she all but snarls. “I am  _ not _ my father.” Although, suddenly, she’s not quite sure. She thinks to Yaz, to her reaction if she finds out she’d taken another life from her already bloodied hands. 

The tension on the wire around David’s throat loosens. 

“He always said you were too soft,” is the last thing Jemma hears before David uses his remaining strength to flip their positions and toss her to the cobbled ground. 

Her head hits the solid ground first, and she cries out when thick boot collides with her stomach enough to wind her. His footsteps fall away, then, and she’s alone again. 

Jemma manages a breathy  _ who’s soft now? _ Before she slumps back against the ground and works on steadying her breathing. It takes a few long minutes until she’s composed again, and even longer to haul herself up into a sitting position and check over her injuries. Her nose is sore, but not broken, and her bottom lip has slowed its weeping to only when she moves her mouth to grunt. There’s a mere dull ache to her stomach, so she expects bruising is all she’ll earn. Her head pounds, but there’s no blood. 

When she stands, the world spins for a few moments. She braces a hand against the wall to support herself and falls into a brisk walk in a bid to go unnoticed. 

Two blocks away, Yaz’s attention diverts to the phone on her coffee table every few minutes. Her girlfriend should’ve been back by now, but perhaps they’d kept her behind to show her around the gym and see how she adapts. 

She’s in the middle of making a mug of tea when the front door clicks open, then falls shut behind uneven footsteps. 

“How did it go?” she asks enthusiastically on the way to the door, but the sight which greets her makes her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. “Oh,  _ fuck.  _ Jemma, what happened?” She lurches forward, arms open, and allows the other woman to slump against her with a grunt, arms encircling her neck. 

“Think I’m cursed, babe,” Jemma mumbles into the fabric of her jumper, where she rests for a few long moments to compose herself before allowing her girlfriend to guide her through to the living room. She sinks into the purple couch, groaning at the feel of protesting muscles. She’d half-jogged the rest of the way home, leaving her breathless and light-headed. 

“What  _ happened _ , Jemma? Who did this?” Yaz repeats in higher tone this time, sinking to her knees at her side and eyeing her mussed features in open concern. Dread settles low in her stomach in anticipation for her response. 

Jemma shifts, turning her head so she doesn’t rest on the blooming bruise at the back. She settles her cheek against the plush material, blinking lazily at Yaz. “Some bloke — father’s best mate — wanted to get —  _ ah _ —” she pauses, wincing when Yaz reappears suddenly with a wet flannel, dabbing just under her nose. With a whispered apology, she lets her continue. “ — some revenge, I guess.”

“Christ,” Yaz sighs, cupping her chin to ever so gently wipe crimson moisture from her bottom lip. The bridge of her nose is turning more purple with every passing minute. Her movements pause suddenly and Jemma notices, gazes levelling. Fear captures Yaz’s pupils in its hold, rendering her irises wider. “Wait, Jemma — did you —” 

Jemma flinches as though she’s been burnt, expression turning to anger, then shame, then simply  _ tired _ in a matter of seconds. “I could’ve,” she murmurs lowly in the dangerous tone Yaz hasn’t heard in a whole year. Her breath catches and she swallows. “But I didn’t.” 

Yaz nods, then, pride swelling in her chest, her pulse slowing from its rapid torment against her ribs. She can read her like an open book when Jemma slumps against the couch with a wavering frown. “You’re not your father, Jemma. You’re so much stronger. So much  _ braver.  _ What you did just then is sure evidence of that.” 

Unwillingly, Jemma sniffs once, twice, then caves. She registers warm arms curling around her when a soft, shuddering sob wracks her body, leaving her to hide away in the crook of Yaz’s neck until she can regain control again. Moments of weakness, of fragility like this, are getting easier with each occasion, whether it be through nightmares or resurfacing memories, and Yaz is always there. “I was — I was  _ so close _ to just —” Jemma whispers against her neck, nose pressed against Yaz’s pulse so her scent can infiltrate her senses and calm her aching chest. It works, as always. 

“You  _ didn’t _ , though, Jemma. I’m so proud of you,” Yaz whispers affectionately, drawing back to cup Jemma’s jaw and press a kiss to her swollen lips. “So proud.”

Jemma refuses to let go, leaving Yaz to sink into the space beside her and gather her into her arms despite the squished, cramped position. 

She looks a lot smaller, curled up around her and clinging to her as though she’ll disappear at any moment, Yaz observes, threading her fingers through her hair in a slow caress with an extra effort not to brush the bruised, raised skin at the back of her skull. 

“As much as I love you, babe, you really need a bath if you want to get all this blood and muck off you and heal better,” Yaz proposes twenty minutes later, observing the way Jemma has almost fallen asleep against her. 

Her eyes blink open slowly, like a feline, and she nods, hiding a wince when Yaz finally helps her stand again. 

“Easy, babe,” Yaz croons softly when, freshly filled with steaming water and enough bubbles for a small swimming pool, Jemma sinks into the bath. The bruising around her toned stomach is a dark green in contrast to her purple nose, where the swelling has started to ease away. 

Jemma catches Yaz’s wrist when she moves to sit beside the bath, when she’d much rather have her girlfriend in there with her. She flutters her lashes, breathing a quiet whine. “Join me? Please?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, babe,” Yaz replies in earnest, but when Jemma sighs, curling her arms around herself, her decision is made. “You could just  _ say _ you want me to hold you, y’know.”

“But what about my reputation?” Jemma chides in return, pulling at the scab on her lip when she sends her a charming grin. It’s worth it, though, when Yaz slips in behind her and she can sink back against her with a hum. “Thank you for — you know,” she starts, cheeks pink. They’ve been together almost a year now and she still can’t allow herself too much vulnerability in one sitting. “Looking after me.” 

“Always,” Yaz answers honestly against the top of her spine, where she presses a kiss to the ever-present lily while reaching for a bottle of shampoo at her side. “You’d do the same for me, regardless of how ‘cool’ you are.” 

Perfectly avoiding sensitive skin, Yaz massages the mixture through her short hair before letting her rinse it through the bathwater, all the while perfectly attentive to her fresh injuries. 

“I got the job, by the way,” Jemma informs her once she’s returned the favour, slipping into her arms once more. She doesn’t want to leave her for the rest of the day if she can help it, and Yaz doesn’t seem to mind her sudden clinginess. Both pin it down to the fear Jemma refuses to admit to. 

_ Baby steps,  _ Jemma echoes to herself, pressing her cheek against Yaz’s shoulder so she can map out her features again and again. 

“You did?” Yaz quips, a mix of pride, warmth and encouragement lacing her tone. “I told you you would. Congratulations, babe.”

“I totally aced it,” Jemma brags, pressing a kiss to the corner of Yaz’s lips, then moulding against her to capture them properly. “Think I deserve a reward for all my bravery and success today, come to think of it.”

“Whoa, now,” Yaz laughs, losing herself to another few kisses before regretfully pulling back. “You’re hurt, Jem. I’m not making your injuries worse just because you’re feeling frisky.”

“But —” Jemma whisper-whines, brushing her lips against Yaz’s earlobe and reeling with the sigh she elicits. “I’m not in that much pain. Just a few bruises.”

“Jemma, you look like someone has gone mad with a bucket of purple and green paint,” Yaz chides gently, lashes fluttering when Jemma ducks her head to mouth at her neck instead. 

Jemma sighs, tongue gracing Yaz’s pulse while she drops a hand to cup her breast just under the surface of the water. “ _ Fine,  _ can’t I just have you instead?”

“That’s not  _ fair _ ,” Yaz whines, the sound tapering off into a moan when Jemma bares her teeth to sensitive skin. “We have to be even.”

“Then let’s,” Jemma purrs, reaching for the hand braced against her hip to boldly slip it between her legs. 

She’s hot and swollen beneath her fingers and Yaz gasps at the speed in which she’s ready for her. “Tell me the second anything hurts, okay? You have to promise me.”

“Promise, baby,” Jemma drawls, parting her thighs in encouragement for her to start moving her fingers. 

Yaz drops her head back when Jemma latches onto her neck while the spreads her, then begins probing and circling her clit with two fingers. 

Jemma breathes a moan against her skin, ducking a hand beneath the water to stroke between Yaz’s legs in the same rhythm until they’re both squirming into matching pressure. 

“You’re so good,” Yaz sighs, sinking a finger, then two, past her entrance to curl inside her. She swallows her answering groan, capturing her lips in a clumsy kiss which leaves them both panting into open mouths, water swirling between them. 

Jemma gives in to the pull of her praise as it shoots heat towards her abdomen, hips squirming for purchase before she starts rocking against her fingers. “Mmnuh — tell me — tell me I did really well today,” she pleads, her tone an octave higher than usual. “Tell me you’re proud of me again.”

“You did  _ so  _ well today, baby, so good,” Yaz purrs breathlessly, Jemma’s answering groan making her grind down against her desperately. “I’m so proud of you, Jemma. You’re amazing.”

“Fuck,” Jemma whimpers, reaching out to grip the edge of the tub while she speeds up her efforts against Yaz’s burning core. She slips two fingers inside her with ease, thrusting languidly. 

Foreheads resting together and breaths quickening, Yaz is wound tight in minutes, watching the way her girlfriend squirms and writhes with each word of encouragement. “That’s right, are you going to come for me, baby?”

“Mm — harder, please. It won’t hurt — fuck, I don’t even care if it  _ does  _ — I need you, Yaz,” Jemma practically begs, pressing her thumb firmly against Yaz’s clit in a way she knows she loves. “Please, I love you.”

“ _ Jemma,”  _ Yaz breathes, meeting her lips messily while she careens towards her inevitable climax, just in reach. She increases her speed, adding a third to drive her girlfriend into a blissful abyss. “I love you too,  _ god,  _ I do, I really do.”

Jemma comes with a harsh cry, dropping her head to her shoulder and riding it out with a series of shudders and gasps until Yaz clenches around her fingers with a groan. 

“Holy shit,” Yaz muffles against the top of her head, trembling with aftershocks. She pulls her hand back and draws her girlfriend closer once more. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

When Jemma straightens up to meet her gaze, she shakes her head, but her bottom lip is weeping with blood again. 

“C’mon, let’s get you warm and dry,” Yaz murmurs, shifting to stand. 

“No chance of the latter when you’re standing there like that, babe,” Jemma flirts, stepping out of the bath with a hand on her waist and another in her own. 

“Oh, shut up.” Yaz rolls her eyes, tossing a fluffy purple towel in her direction. “You’re like a horny teenage boy, Jem.”

“But — Yaz, I’m  _ injured _ ,” Jemma counters with a smirk, curling the material around herself and immediately sweeping her arms around her girlfriend’s waist from behind. “I’m so  _ fragile _ , babe. I think I deserve a little more special attention.”

“You’re so annoying.” Yaz maneuvres them from the room with Jemma still attached to her, padding through to her room and huffing through her nose. 

“I love you,” Jemma murmurs against her shoulder blade in a voice so soft it leaves Yaz putty in her arms, so she reaches around until they’re face to face again. 

“I love you too,” Yaz replies, wiping a bead of blood from Jemma’s lip. “Even if it scares me every time you leave this flat.” 

“Just keeping you on your toes, baby,” Jemma croons despite the sudden anxiety to her tone. 

Yaz leans in, noses touching until Jemma makes a little grumble at the back of her throat because she won’t let her kiss her. “Move in with me.”

“Mmwhat?” Jemma mumbles, blinking at her, wide and surprised. 

“So I can stop worrying every time you go home,” Yaz reasons, fingers bunching anxiously into the material of Jemma’s towel. “And so I can do my best to protect you, too.” 

“Okay,” Jemma replies simply, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. “You’re going to have to get a bigger wardrobe, though, babe. And can we use the spare room as a gym? Oh — maybe I could bring my TV with me — no offence, Yaz, yours is awful…”

Yaz groans, raking her fingers through her hair and shaking her head. “I’m already regretting this.”


	12. she keeps me warm

“Babe,” Yaz hums, a teasing lilt to her voice. “You’re worse than my dad with that thing.”

Jemma huffs, shuffling up the couch out of Yaz’s reach, phone held aloft. “Shut up. I’m trying to find the confirmation for my last paycheck.”

“Let me,” Yaz leans over, not hesitating to slip into Jemma’s lap just to reach the blasted device. Her girlfriend simply huffs, giving up her grasp to settle her hands on Yaz’s hips instead. She’s in a pair of leggings and a loose maroon jumper, so it’s easy to slip her hands beneath and seek warm, toned flesh. 

Yaz grants her a moment of quiet appreciation for her well-kept figure if only to scan through her emails. She types in the keyword _ confirmation _ when her search is deemed unsuccessful, brows furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between pearly whites. 

“I love that look, babe,” Jemma drawls flirtatiously, fingers bumping into her sports bra before caressing back down the slope of her stomach and drawing her closer. “Any luck?”

She’s grateful Jemma is distracted with teasing touches and greedy caresses when, scrolling through her inbox, Yaz comes across a different confirmation altogether. 

Curiosity peaked, Yaz taps the email in question. 

_ Order confirmation: silver-studded engagement ring. Status: out for delivery. _

Dated a week prior, the email coaxes a gasp from her lips which catches Jemma’s attention in no time. 

She’s a second too late to hide it when the blonde peers at the screen in intrigue. 

“What’s wro— oh.” Jemma freezes, hands dropping to Yaz’s thighs. “Uh — you weren’t meant to see that, babe.”

“See what?” Yaz answers coyly, fighting back the flush in her cheeks and the surprise in her eyes when she hands the phone back. 

It works, up until Jemma presses a kiss to her lips and has to pull back because she’s smiling too much. She reaches for Yaz’s hand, tracing the finger she has yet to claim with a ring. 

“What’s that face for?”

“You _ know _, babe,” Jemma answers, arms encircling her waist instead. 

“Is it here? In the flat?” Yaz probes, shifting in her lap and radiating with excitement. 

Jemma nods, cheeks pinkening. 

Yaz holds back a squeal and Jemma falls a little more in love with her. “Is it hidden somewhere?” 

“Yes,” Jemma hums, sitting back to allow her girlfriend to slip from her lap. 

Yaz reaches for her hand to drag the blonde from her spot on the couch, curling her arms around slim hips and leaning up to whisper in her ear with the most salacious tone possible. “Can we play a game of hot or cold?” 

“Yaz, _ no,” _Jemma scoffs, regarding the younger woman in embarrassment. 

“Why? Are you too _ cool _ to play games, babe?” Yaz bumps their noses, offering up her best puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, you’ve already spoilt the surprise. Let me have this.”

“Excuse _ you, _ but _ I _didn’t spoil the surprise,” Jemma huffs, doing her best to fold her arms but Yaz squeezes that little bit closer instead. 

“You’re boring,” Yaz sighs, shoulders slumping, doe eyes in full-force. “I just wanted to have some fun.”

“You can’t just — it’s not —” Jemma falters, lifting a hand to cup Yaz’s cheek. She breathes an over-dramatic sigh. “_ Fine _, as long as you promise not to pull that face again.”

“Thanks, babe,” Yaz murmurs in a kiss against her lips, then reaches for her hand, aware she hasn’t made her promise. “So; this room? Hot or cold?”

“Freezing,” Jemma murmurs snidely, but she can’t deny the amused twitch to her lips when Yaz drags her into the kitchen next. 

“Cold,” the blonde murmurs only _ after _ Yaz has opened and closed every drawer and cupboard in the room, earning a pointed glare from her girlfriend. 

“Ice cold,” she repeats in the bathroom, leaning in the doorway while Yaz scans through the cabinets and nooks of the room in quick procession. “Can’t feel my tits, babe.”

“No problem, so long as I can,” Yaz flirts unashamedly on the way into their bedroom, where Jemma’s pulse noticeably quickens in her neck. 

The blonde perches on the edge of the bed, wary her legs might give way with the nerves sending her stomach into summersaults. The last time she’d come this close to such a huge milestone, it was wiped from her hands like footprints in sand, so her fear is rational. 

Yaz pads towards the top drawer of their bedside unit first, slipping it open with a smirk. Retrieving a small toy, she turns to her innocently, letting it buzz for a moment in her palm. “Hot or cold, babe?”

“_ That’s _ hot, but sorry, baby. You’re cold.” Jemma straightens up, wetting her lips. She laughs when, dejectedly, Yaz drops the toy back into her drawer and circles the room, arms out. 

“Warmer,” Jemma notes, leaning her elbows on her knees, legs astride. 

Yaz pauses where she’s stood by their wardrobe, eyeing her girlfriend suspiciously. 

When she opens the sliding door, Jemma slips from the bed to stand. “Even warmer.”

“Really, babe? Putting me back in the closet?” Yaz chides playfully, gracing her hands over the rails at the top, to begin with. Jemma doesn’t react, so she crouches to scan the mountain of shoes at the bottom. 

“Hot,” Jemma murmurs. 

Yaz can’t tell if it’s because she’s crouched, backside up, glancing through her wardrobe, or if she’s gotten any closer to the source, so she turns to shoot her a warning glare. 

Jemma laughs, gaze flicking between Yaz’s expression and the curve of her backside. “I swear I’m serious, babe. Wouldn’t mind it if you stayed there like that for a bit longer though.”

Yaz’s complaint dies on her lips when she catches sight of her girlfriend’s old first aid kit and suddenly Jemma inhales sharply. 

“Boiling,” she whispers, wringing her hands at her sides. 

Yaz draws the small bag from its confines and unzips the main pocket to find a lavish, deep red box. “Bit morbid, Jem.”

“Shut up,” the blonde huffs, reaching for the small box when Yaz lifts it from the medical bag. “Congrats, babe.”

She uses her free hand to guide Yaz back to her feet, then to sweep around her waist. “Is there — I mean, you know what’s in there. Do you want me to do the whole down-on-one-knee thing? These trousers are expensive.” 

Yaz takes one look at the leather pants hugging her in all the right places, then to her torn, flushed expression. “Jem, are you _ nervous _?”

Jemma shakes her head, adamant, stoic. “No. Definitely not. Why would I be nervous?”

“Babe.”

“Maybe a tiny bit.” 

Yaz winds her arms around Jemma’s neck even as she fiddles with the box between them. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?” Jemma drawls, tongue caught between her teeth. She revels in the frustrated groan Yaz presses against her shoulder. 

“_ Jemma _.”

“Fine, fine,” the blonde moves both hands to unwrap the small box and ready it to open. “Yasmin Khan — the love of my life,” she leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth as though the affections feed her courage. “The bringer of orgasms.” Another kiss, to her lips this time, but she’s smiling too hard to deepen it. Yaz scrunches her nose in distaste. “And my counsellor.” She peels back, dotting a kiss to the tip of her nose while she flips the box open with a flourish. “Marry me?”

“Hmm,” Yaz tilts her head, mapping out the pink hue to her girlfriend’s cheeks with faux-contemplation. It doesn’t last long, however, when Jemma meets her gaze in earnest. “Yes.” 

“Thank _ fuck. _ That would’ve been really awkward otherwise_,” _ Jemma sighs, slipping the perfectly-fitted silver band onto her finger before she draws her in and refuses to let go. She tucks her face into her neck, pressing a kiss there. “You’re mine.”

* * *

“Jemma?” Yaz whispers into the dark hours later, feeling for the warm presence at her side and only finding empty space. Her ring catches the light coming in from her balcony, casting her girlfriend’s — no, _ fiancee’s _ shadow on the wall opposite. 

Curling a blanket around her form, but otherwise remaining bare, Yaz pads towards the balcony with a yawn. “Jem?”

“Oh, hey, baby. Did I wake you?” Jemma straightens up from where she’s leant against the swirling railings, a pair of underwear and a jumper the only protection from the cold already sending goosebumps over Yaz’s skin. 

“You weren’t in bed,” Yaz states sleepily, curling her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “What are you doing out here?”

“Surveillance,” Jemma replies with a shrug, hiding beneath her hood. “I told you that I was cursed, didn’t I? So it wouldn’t be a surprise if the same night I propose, something horrific happens.”

“You’re certainly dressed for the part, babe,” Yaz chides playfully, reaching out a hand. “Please come back to bed, Jemma. You’re _ not _cursed, and if anything happens, wouldn’t you want to be right next to me rather than outside?”

The bridge of Jemma’s nose creases in contemplation before she accepts her fiancee’s significantly warmer hand. “Guess that makes more sense.”

“Shit, you’re _ freezing. _ Come on.”

“Warm me up?”

“You sure you can protect us if I warm you up properly?” Yaz smirks, nudging her back onto the bed and drawing the sheets up even as she straddles the other woman’s hips. 

Jemma instantly sweeps her arms around her waist, drawing her in for a kiss. Despite the sensitive subject, she seems to see the funny side. “I’m a brilliant multitasker, babe. Trust me.”

Yaz returns her kiss in kind, curling her fingers through soft blonde locks and encouraging warmth to spread beneath her fingertips. “I trust you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! kudos and comments are always appreciated!!


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